


A Hex On Fate

by SpunYarn



Series: A Book Of Hexes [3]
Category: Fire Emblem Series, Fire Emblem: Kakusei | Fire Emblem: Awakening
Genre: Action, Angst, Dirty Talk, Drama, F/M, Hope, Loss, Pain, Romance, Sexual Content, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-28
Updated: 2019-06-30
Packaged: 2019-08-09 00:50:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 52,160
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16439963
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SpunYarn/pseuds/SpunYarn
Summary: Tharja had thought that all she needed to be happy was Robin. Now that they're married, the fact that they still haven't met her 'future child' is beginning to take its tole on her. With so many worries about what it could mean, she faces the possibility that fate might try to pull them apart. Is it all in her head, or is the future a shade of darkness that even she cannot accept.This is a sequel to "A Hex Called Love", but if you haven't read that, this is still a fine jumping-in point.Yesthis is a sequel to my previous work.Noyoudo nothave to have read my previous work to enjoy this one.





	1. A Hex Of Legend

**Author's Note:**

> I was sure I was done with this series, but immediately after posting it I thought of the next place to take it.
> 
> This story is probably going to be a little bit slower to come out than my stuff usually is because I don't have my usual glut of free time, but because I know it's gonna take a little bit longer between chapters, I'll try to make my chapters a little bit longer too.

The small town, really little more than a group of settlements that had built walls of mud and adobe around villagers’ homes to serve sentry against the elements. It was far enough off of the beaten path, that the Shepherds had thought to do a little trading to collect the provisions that they needed for their conflict. It had not always been easy to trade with people closer to where they had battled. It was hard not to feel the moral imperative to give more than they got when they heard about people who had been raided by Plegian soldiers, or been forced to evacuate their homes to escape the fighting. When they went out of their way like this, they tended to be able to forget about the trails of combat

There was a small catch that tended to crop up when they stepped onto the path less traveled. While there was less danger that they would encounter the forces of Plegia, there were still dangers when one venture into the wilderness. Forest paths didn’t have the maintenance that main roads had, so natural dangers like rockslides, or fallen trees were a possibility. There was always the danger that they might be attacked by wild animals, while tracking through trees. Of course, the more memorable encounters were those that they had with bandits.

“Jus’ give us yer goods so we dun hafta’ hurt ya.” The malice in the gruff voice betrayed the ill-intent of its owner as much as the choice of the words used.

The white haired strategist of the Shepherds had scrambled for cover behind a crumbling mud wall. He signalled the rest of his troupe to do the same, gritting his teeth as he considered the foul luck of running into a group of bandits. It was definitely the morally correct choice to jump in and deal with them before they could hurt these villagers. He knew that he couldn’t turn away, but he had been hoping for a quick and easy resupply.

It really shouldn’t have been a thing that Robin should have had to think about. The problem arose because of their current supply situation. While Robin’s allocation of resources had left the Shepards with plenty of powerful weapons with which to fight Plegia, they had fewer of the more mundane tools of combat. Using the Levin Sword at his hip on mere bandits seemed like it would be a horrible waste, not to mention serious overkill. Maybe they could get away with just a little sabre-rattling to make the bandits run away.

Robin turned his eyes quickly to another wall. He watched as the blue-haired heiress stood at the ready, her hand hovering over the hilt of her version of Falchion. The powerful, and indestructible weapon of legend was a saving grace to their resource woes. Unfortunately, even though it appeared to be immune to becoming dull, like most legendary weapons, it took a special kind of hero to use it.

It was because it was such a valuable tool that Robin had decided to send Chrom and his version of the dragon-slaying sword to a different town to negotiate. If the headstrong king had run into bandits on his end as well, he had probably already charged into battle. Robin was glad that his party included the more cautious member of the royal family. While Lucina was definitely a skilled sword-wielder, she couldn’t fight this whole band of ruffians on her own. The rest of their party might waste vital seconds deciding to use their equipment, and that could cost Lucina her life. You’d have to be some kind of madman to charge in without knowing how reliable your backup would be.

“Halt fiends!”

The cry had cut through the air, making everyone pause in what they were doing. Lucina and Robin gave each other uncertain looks for a moment before taking the opportunity to take another peek at the scene playing out. The bandits that hadn’t already made it for cover had paused before looking around and trying to find the source of the cry. It hadn’t taken them long to find the yellow mercenary who stood just at the edge of the settlement with his hands on his hips.

“What is this?” A thin bandit, with the cape and thin leather armour of a thief let out a long sigh, “Some rocks for brains wanderer wants to play hero, eh? Who even are you, kid?”

The young man moved quickly, the tails of his yellow jacket dancing in the air as he brought his hand up beside his face, “I am one chosen by the mystical forces of fate! My sword hand trembles with a hunger for justice! Flee villain, before I slake its thirst with your lives.”

Robin winced slightly as he listened to young man talk. He sounded like he was trying to emulate some sort of hero of legend or something. His heart was clearly in the right place, but it wasn’t going to matter when the bandits killed him and then went back to plundering the town. They’d probably decide to be rougher on the townspeople because they had become impatient, and to remind them not to try anything like this in the future. The kid may have had good intentions, but the only way that this wouldn’t turn into a huge disaster was if Robin and his group made a move to help him.

“Whus he talkin’ bout?” The muscle-bound ruffian who had been demanding treasure from the town turned back to the skinny thief, “This guy crazy er somthin’, Gecko?”

Gecko traced his thumb over the dagger-like point of the thin strip of facial hair under his bottom lip. He seemed to be weighing the boy, considering the best way to deal with this intrusion on their plans. The fingers of his other hand played delicately over the handle of the knife at his belt. He may have been a bandit, but Gecko was clearly accomplished enough as a leader to consider all of his options lest he make some sort of costly mistake.

Finally, the hand that had been playing over his thin soul patch moved up, his fingers tracing over the skin on either side of his deep widows-peak, “Just grab the loot and go. If he tries to give us any trouble we’ll show him what _real_ trouble looks like.”

The yellow-clad mercenary slid down into a fighting stance. His brown boots kicked up the dust of the road. The slender fingers of his leather-bound hand came out, hovering over the hilt of the blade that hung from his hips. His eyes sparkled with determination as a confident smile spread across his lips. The soft breeze caused his messy brown hair, and the long tails of his yellow jacket to sway slightly. He may have been talking a big game, but at that moment he looked every bit the hero that he had been declaring himself to be. Honestly, Robin was pretty sure it was the kind of stance that Lucina took when she went into battle.

“I gave you a chance, foul knave.” The yellow man’s lips curled back to show off a flash of teeth, “Once its had a taste of battle, even I won’t be able to stop this hand of mine!”

Robin quickly ran through possible strategies. He knew that Severa was over by Lucina, and together the three of them were basically in the middle of this conflict. Lissa had stayed back with Stahl, ready to use the mounted unit’s speed to charge in if they needed healing. Tharja had insisted on coming, but, due to her distaste for people, had decided not to enter the town. His group felt like it was short members, and spread a little too thin. He knew that everyone would jump into battle the moment he took that first step, but it was going to be hard to protect the town while keeping his own people safe.

The strategist looked back over to Lucina, expecting to see her waiting for his order. What he saw instead was a slightly pained and exasperated expression on her face. Clearly the grandstanding that this young man was doing was taking its tole on her as well. Perhaps she had already made the same battle calculations that he had, and was thinking about how much harder this battle was going to be. The young man had spirit, but it was hard not to think about how much easier it would be to regroup while the bandits were distracted with beating him to death.

Gecko slowly drew the long dagger from the sheath at his side, taking a few steps towards the young man, “Seriously, kid. Who do you even think you are?”

“I am the great wolf who howls for justice!” The soles of his boots scraped over the rough sand of the path, “The soaring eagle who cries out with the power of love!” His face took on a strong and determined look, “A chosen hero, sent back from a broken future to bring hope to a dark and dying world!” His eyes flashed dangerously, “You stand before none other than Owain, scion of legend! You’ll pay for your vile deeds in the blistering hellfire of the afterlife!”

Owain’s trembling fingers hung in the air over the hilt of his sword. To the trained eye it was clear that the young man had been hoping that his series of barks meant that he wouldn’t be called on to bite. He was doing a fair job of making it look like what was actually happening was that some invisible force was keeping him from grasping his sword. It was clear that this future child at least knew enough to identify when he had bitten off more than he could chew.

“Blasted hand! This is no time for your games!” He grit his teeth bringing his trembling hand back up before looking down at his palm. He slowly drew his fingers into a fist, squeezing it tightly before looking up again, “You can still escape your fate, treacherous rogue, but know that justice will find you wherever you go!”

Robin caught his face with his palm. He had thought for sure that the most ridiculous personality from the future was going to be the hero-minded Cynthia. At least the blue-haired pegasus knight talked like a normal human. The dramatic way that this Owain had chosen to speak, may have seemed impressive, but it really felt like nothing but air. Flowery speech would only do so much to cover up trembling fear.

“Heh.” Gecko sneered at the boy before turning back to his companions, “He may have rocks for brains, but he doesn’t even have the stones to draw his sword.” He slipped the long dagger back into its sheath, “Alright, boys. Ignore this idiot. Grab anything that glitters and lets get out of here.”

“Halt!” Owain brought his hand up, pointing an accusatory finger at the bandit leader, “The legendary blade Mystletainn is fated for no hand but mine!”

Robin took a long breath, “Screw it.” He vaulted over the wall, his long coat billowing around him as he landed on the dusty street. His fingers gripped tightly at the hilt of his Levin Sword as he glared at the bandits, “There’s no need for bloodshed today. With a signal I can bring the full might of the Ylissean army down upon you!” Six soldiers was clearly not the full might of the Ylissean army, but these bandits didn’t know their strength yet.

“Wow…” Gecko raised an eyebrow as he looked at the new intruder on his plans, “It’s two idiots now instead of just one.” He waved his hand dismissively, “Alright. Kill them, I guess.”

The arrows flew through the air, biting into the dirt path, and clattering against the clay and stone of the protective walls. The two young men who had stepped up in defence of the town quickly dived behind the crumbling wall for safety. Robin was sure that Lucina and Severa were on the move and would be dealing with the bandits soon, bu the clattering of arrows and stones against the wall was still unsettling.

Owain let out a soft chuckle as he looked over to the strategist, “Ah, a Levin Sword. It’s no match for Mysteletainn, but that’s quite the weapon in the hands of someone who knows how to use it.”

“I’m well aware of how to use it.” The strategist grit his teeth for a moment, “I’m going to use it here, and then I need to go. Two of my teammates are going to jump into this battle in a minute. They’ll help you clean up these bandits. I need to get to one of my other teammates who might be in danger.”

Robin let out a long sigh as he slowly slipped the jagged blade free from his hip. The blade crackled with an arcane energy, a fain glow coming from its edges. He didn’t wait for a response from Owain. If this was one of Lucina’s friends from the future it meant they had to be able to handle themselves in a combat situation. As the Levin Sword finally finished charging, Robin gave a quick nod and then set his plan in motion.

The white-haired strategist stepped up, brining the twisting blade of the Levin Sword up in a long, cruel arc. Magical energies crackled off of the edges of the glowing blade before shooting across the battlefield in a terrifying bolt of lightning. The smell of ozone and burnt earth filled the air as the deadly electricity ripped across the crossroads, sending the bandits scrambling for cover.

With the crossroads cleared for a moment, the strategist slipped the electrical sword back into a leather loop at his hip and made a mad dash away from the battlefield. Owain thought for a moment that he might just be running away, but the sounds of swords clashing with axes soon rang out over the field. The young myrmidon looked back over the edge of the wall to see two sword-wielding women cutting their way through very nervous looking bandits. It seemed that his new friend was making a tactical withdrawal after all.

“Alright then…” Owain felt a confident smile tug at the corner of his lips as he drew the thin sword from his hip, “Hahaha! Repent, ne’er-do-wells! My sword hand cries out for justice! Sacred Stones!”

oOoOo

Things in the town had escalated much more quickly than Tharja had expected them to. She had moved around the town, taking up a spot in higher ground so that she could see what was going on below. When she had spotted what had looked like a group of bandits she had made a note of it, but hoped it wouldn’t be a problem. Little nowhere towns like this one were the kind of place that would brand her a witch and decide that all of their troubles were because of her. There were reasons to hate almost everyone, backwater folk like this were not an exception.

In Tharja’s opinion the best course of action would probably be to let the bandits do their thing, and then pick over whatever they didn’t take.They had come here for the more simple supplies, the things that bandits wouldn’t be so interested in. She understood that clearing out the bandits would mean that the villagers would probably offer them better bargains. Those bargains wouldn’t be better than just taking what they wanted from a weak and demoralized town that lacked the strength to stop them. Tharja supposed that this was probably one of those moments where her more flexible moral compass would probably be at odds with Robin.

When the fighting had actually started, the dark sorceress narrowed her eyes dangerously. While she hadn’t cared about the bandits raiding the town, the thought that they would dare to take up arms against her husband filled her with a primal rage. She knew that the white-haired strategist would be against her using one of her powerful spell books as a response, but she saw few other avenues. She would not stand idly by while bandits threw stones at the man she loved.

Tharja snapped open the dark-purple grimoire, her eyes narrowing their focus onto the brutish bandits below her. Her carefully manicured black fingernails traced over the smooth surface of the pages as she flipped though the tome. Clearly she would need some sort of unspeakable hex to remind these simple men not to stray too far from the path before them. Her lips formed a cruel and hateful smile as she brought her thumb up, wetting the pad with her tongue to make turning pages easier.

The sorceress had been entirely too focused on the battle that was taking place below. It became all too clear that she should have paid more attention to her surroundings when a hot searing pain slashed across her back. She jolted forward at the unfamiliar feeling, the heavy book slipping from her fingers and falling down to the ground. She winced slightly as she reached down to grab for it only to be pulled back hard by a strong grip on her dark cape.

She had lost her balance. She wasn’t sure whether it was the sword strike to her black, or the tug on her cape that had contributed more. As she found herself thrown to the ground at the base of a tree, she realized it didn’t really matter. Her back screamed fresh agony in her mind as the fresh wound was thrown against the rough bark at the base of the tree. Her cape may have offered the protection to keep the wound from being too serious, but the wet feeling on her back was enough to tell her that it had drawn blood.

The ruffian that had attacked her sneered down at Tharja, tapping the flat of his chipped blade against his shoulder, “Well, well…If it ain’t one o’ them Plegian dark magicians.” His chuckle dripped with cruelty and malice as he brought the sword down so that the tip touched at the metal collar of her cape, “Gecko thinks treasure has ta be shiny stuff like this.” His sword-tip slowly traveled down, hovering over the valley of her breasts, “I prefer my treasures ta be soft and warm.”

Tharja scowled as she looked at the rough looking barbarian. This was hardly her first time dealing with this kind of man. There always seemed to be at least one in every group of drunk men that thought that coming after a sorceress was a good idea. They always changed their tune the moment that a book was cracked and the danger of a spell hung in the air. Tharja growled deep in her throat, wishing that she could reach her dropped spell book now.

“I wonder how _warm and soft_ you’ll think I am once I’ve burned out your eyes…” Tharja curled her fingers into tight fists. Without a spell book, she knew it would be hard to deliver on the threat. She slowly pushed herself up the tree, every scrape of the rough bark against her back racking her body with searing hot pain.

A growl slipped from the bandit’s lips, his free hand shooting forward to grasp a fistful of the sorceress’s ebony locks. With a painful pull he pulled her head back, causing her body to arch slightly, and eliciting a slight gasp from the woman’s lips. Tharja narrowed her eyes in pain and rage, her hands gripping tighter against the tree behind her so that she wouldn’t fall any further into his grasp.

“A little bit o’ fight left in ya, eh?” The ruffian leaned his head in and took in a long breath of her scent, “I’m lookin’ forward ta the look on yer face when ya finally break.”

Tharja grit her teeth, trying to force her face into a cruel and threatening smile, “If you think you have the equipment required to break me, clearly you know nothing about practitioners of dark magic.”

“I heard that no matter how much ova prude one pretends ta be, yer all secretly freaks.” He chuckled softly, slowly drawing the tip of his sword downward towards her belly, “I heard ya Plegian witches know every way ta please a man.” Finally the tip of his chipped and beaten sword came to rest on the metal bands that formed the top of her skirt, “I heard the reason ya dress like this is cause yer all desperate fer a good hard fuck.”

Tharja swung a hand forward for a hard slashing sweep of her sharp fingernails. Had the bandit not let go of his sword, he likely wouldn’t have been able to catch her hand in time. Instead of a cruel slash to the face, her hand was stopped when the bandit’s thick and meaty hand caught her wrist. After a quick struggle, the bandit proved himself physically stronger by pinning both of Tharja’s wrists above her head in a single meaty hand. Each pull against his grasp sent jolts of pain through her wounded back, and only served to further drain her stamina.

The barbarian brought his free hand to his belt, working it loose so that he could free himself, “Don’t worry, I know just the right places ta make ya squeal.”

A low primal growl came from deep in Tharja’s throat, “I’d sooner set myself on fire than let you touch me, filthy pig.”

His breath was hot on her face, the rancid smell of someone who didn’t subscribe to an oral care routine stinging at her nose. The shadowy woman began to weigh her options. She had no spell book to blast him away with magic, and even if she did, with her arms pinned she could hardly use it. The throbbing pain in her back was robbing what little strength she had, so struggling at this point wasn’t going to get her free. Even if she did wriggle free, what then? He’d be on her before she could get to the book she had dropped, and physical attacks against this monster seemed to be a waste.

Fingers the size of sausages assaulted her breast through the thin layer of dark mage garb. She grit her teeth, determined not to reward the groping free hand of the barbarian with any auditory reaction. She glared daggers at him as he pawed at her breast, his fingers squeezing and rubbing at her. His breath came hot on her face, a sinister grin on his lips as he massaged her bosom with his strong calloused hand.

“I guess ya dark mages are hard nuts ta crack.” His hand finally left her breast, his fingertips trailing down her flat stomach, “Can ya keep glarin’ like that when yer moanin’ too?”

Tharja pushed hard with her wrists, an action that proved to be completely futile against the bandit’s strong grip. The only thing that her latest bout of struggling had achieved was to once again push her wounded back into the rough bark of the tree. Her face contorted from the pain, but she hid it with a mask of disgust and contempt. She felt her pulse quicken slightly as the danger continued to close in on her, her mind racing to find a way to escape the fate that this cruel man had in store for her.

His hand slipped down over her hip, his lecherous fingers trailing over the very edge of her skirt. The lustful glint in his eyes betrayed all of his intentions, leaving no doubt of what he intended to do. Thick, dirty fingers slipped beyond the edge of the skirt to the hidden space beyond. Tharja struggled, digging at the earth with her heels in an attempt to pull herself further away from his probing fingers. She squeezed her eyes shut tight. Perhaps there was nothing that she could do to escape this, but at least she didn’t want to watch it happen.

The lecherous groping that the dark sorceress had been expecting to be launched upon her nethers never arrived. Instead, a warmth splashed over her face, accompanied by a soft gurgling noise. The air was filled with the mixing scents of copper, ozone, and something that was burning. Tharja felt the fingers that were wrapped around her wrists twitch before the grip that had her pinned went slack.

“Don’t touch my wife.”

When Tharja finally dared to open an eye, she hadn’t been sure what to expect. The gruff bandit still stood over her, but his eyes were hazy and unfocused. Protruding from the crook of his neck was the shimmering tip of the lightning-shaped Levin Sword. A magical light crackled along the edge of the strange blade, licking back at the skin of the bandit in small, arcing bolts of energy. Burns had taken the skin around the crackling magical blade, cauterizing the wound from the hacking swing.

Behind the teetering bandit stood the black-clad strategist. His eyes glowed with an intense anger, his chest still rising and falling from his desperate search for the dark sorceress. Both of his hands were still wrapped tightly around the hilt of the Levin Sword. His arms were still twitching from all of the force that he had poured into his attack.

Tharja’s body crumpled to the ground when the bandit released her from his vice-like grip. The sorceress hadn’t realized how much of her strength had been sapped by her struggling and the wound in her back until she was suddenly asked to support her own weight. With a moment to rest she was sure she’d be able to move again, but she felt a shiver run down her spine at the thought of how this could have played out. She tasted bile in the back of her throat as she considered what her future could have looked like, weakened and sitting on the ground in front of the bandit who had already opened his pants.

The bandit turned with a speed that didn’t seem right for the amount of damage that he must have taken. In a swift movement he had drawn his chipped sword from the sheath at his hip and taken a swipe at Robin. The strategist had leapt back, barely dodging the barbarian’s cruel weapon. There was surprise in the strategist’s eyes, obviously not having expected his opponent to still have the strength for such an attack.

“I’mma kill ya.” The bandit’s chest rose and fell with harsh gasps, “Not right away though.” His arm on the side that had been attacked hung uselessly at his side, “First I’ll break yer arms and legs.” He brought up his sword in his undamaged arm, getting ready for his next attack, “Then I’m gonna make ya watch me break the witch. Yer gonna hear how she moans with a _real_ man before I kill ya!”

Robin grit his teeth, his fingers tightening around the handle of his Levin Sword. The bandit was like a wild wounded animal, and it was definitely too dangerous to move in close. He knew that the ranged magic of his lightning powered sword could put an end to this battle, but something like that might also hit Tharja. Given how she had slumped to the ground, he couldn’t afford anything that might hit her with the kind of force he needed to deal with the bandit.

He slipped the fingers of his free hand under the edge of his long, black coat. His mind had gone into overdrive in an attempt to arrive at the perfect strategy for this situation. In his experience there was always a way out, and after thinking about it, he was pretty sure he knew the solution to this problem. If he couldn’t afford to use the range advantage of magic because of Tharja, and he couldn’t afford close range combat, that left one answer.

With a quick flick of his arm, a yellow tome from under Robin’s jacket flew through the air. The bandit side-stepped it, obviously leery of touching anything that had been thrown his way. The tome flew past him in a harmless arc, failing to do anything other than give the bandit a momentary pause. He quirked an eyebrow at the unconventional tome attack and then readied his sword for battle again.

“Yer not even a real swordsman.” The bandit’s lips turned up into a villainous grin, “Yer just hidin’ behind that thing, thinkin’ it’ll protect ya.” He brought his sword above his head, his expression twisting into a mask of malicious intent, “I hope ya like the taste o’ steel!”

A burst of brilliant crackling light illuminated the area under the tree. The air was filled with the familiar scent of a magically discharged electricity. The bandit stood stock-still his sword still held up above him for his attack. His eyes had rolled to the back of his head, his lips parted in a pained gasp of disbelief. Small bolts of yellow energy danced over his skin, a thin pillar of smoke rising from his chest. Finally his sword slipped from his grasp, tumbling to the ground as the bandit fell forward.

Supporting her weight against the tree with her elbow, Tharja stood, extending her free arm towards the fallen bandit, sparks of yellow energy dancing upon her fingers. She was cradling the yellow tome in the hand of the arm that held her up, the pages still open to where she had drawn out the power of the spell. Her eyes gave off a dangerous glint from the shadows of her bangs, her lips forming a small smile at a job well done.

Her whisper cut through the eerie silence of the end of battle, “I hope you like darkness.”

Tharja moved, hugging the book to her chest and pushing herself up straight, masking any pain she felt with her usual calm face. Her dark eyes left the lifeless form of the bandit, moving up to the white-haired strategist. She felt a warmth in her chest that he had come to rescue her. Had she been able to she likely would have run to embrace him, but in her tired state she settled for pretending that the tome of Thoron was some sort of extension of his being.

Robin let out the breath that he hadn’t been realizing that he had been holding, his body going slack as the tension of battle left his muscles, “Are you alright?”

“Of course.” She turned her head away from him, ashamed of her weakness, “You saved me, so obviously I’m fine.”

The strategist let out a weak chuckle, “I think you’d better stay at camp the next time we do a resupply run.” He brought the Levin Sword around, fastening it to his hip again, “Supplies aren’t worth the risk of losing you.”

She chewed on her bottom lip for a moment, considering everything that had happened and how it could have gone had Robin not arrived in time, “That’s a fair request.” Her eyes flashed back to her husband, “I’ll agree so long as you can prove that I didn’t leave your thoughts when you return.”

Robin gave a slow nod, his lips forming a smile, “If that’s what it takes to keep you safe.” He slowly closed the distance and pulled Tharja against him in a tight hug, “We can talk about how I’m supposed to do that when we get back to camp.”


	2. A Hex Of An Agreement

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Shepards arrive at a cunning plan to solve their supply issues, but it may take more than words to deal with a small morale issue in his tent.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I live!  
> I never intended for it to take so long for this chapter to come out, but I was kept busy with a lot of stuff, and so I have just been quietly plugging away at this a couple of sentences/paragraphs at a time. That being said, in my edit scan I found a few problems that I was able to catch, but there might be more that I missed along the line. As always, if you see something, say something. I like knowing what kinds of mistakes I'm making, and I'm eager to get in there and fix any that you find.

The strategy tent was filled with more activity than usual. Robin slouched back in a chair, his eyes staring unfocused at the map-table in the centre of the tent. The various discussions that were going on focused on their limited supplies, as well as the ever-growing ranks of these children from the future. Having extra members in their ranks had seemed like a blessing at the start, but keeping everyone ready and outfitted for battle was proving to be a monumental feat. Robin would never suggest that they try to limit these new recruits, but he was glad that they were running out of couples who hadn’t found their future offspring.

Chrom placed his palms flat against the table, letting his head hang so that he was staring down at the map, “We need all of the help we can get.”

Frederick who was standing across the table nodded solemnly, “I understand your feelings, my liege, but our recent excursions have not been as fruitful as we had hoped.”

“What about the merchants?” Lucina looked up from her spot in the corner, her arms defensively crossed over her chest, “Perhaps we can negotiate for lower prices?”

Robin let out a long sigh, “It isn’t really an issue of coins.”

The Anna that had joined their troop as a fighter nodded her head as she stood in the corner, “It’s a supply problem.” Her lips formed a tight frown, “On the front-lines like this a lot of towns are less willing to part with the weapons and supplies that you’re looking for.” She shrugged and forced a soft smile, “We _are_ having a sale on vulneraries. Apparently with Robin handling your strategies, your team doesn’t need them as much as we expected.”

Being too careful to need vulneraries wasn’t necessarily something that made Robin proud. He had been extra careful with his strategies to try and keep people from getting hurt, but that was because the Shepherds were full of important people. With Stahl and Lissa’s new entry, it was starting to feel like half of their army was composed of members of the royal family. It wasn’t like if someone died he could just turn off the world for a moment and then restart their mission from the beginning. Maybe things would change if he ever figured out the time-travel magic that the future children had used.

The problem that they were facing wasn’t a shortage of vulneraries, it was simple weapons. There had been a concern about food, but Panne and Yarne were good at foraging, and if they upped their hunting parties a little bit, they’d probably be fine. Unfortunately, it was difficult to care for their weapons on the battlefield, with their group traveling in a caravan. They didn’t have a smith, and things tended to break when faced with the elements and constant use. Not everyone had an unbreakable sword of legend like Lucina and Chrom.

Chrom let out a long sigh, “The Plegians and their Risen warriors always seem to have weapons. Maybe we could do something to take their supplies?”

It wasn’t the first time that Robin had heard the warrior-king suggest that they procure their supplies from their enemies. It was a charming thought, but most of the weapons that the Risen used were a product of the magic that had created them. They tended not to be useful after the Risen holding them were defeated. As for stealing the weapons of the Plegians, the plan that they just take weapons from their enemies collapsed at the suggestion of something as scandalous as picking weapons off of the dead.

Robin brought his finger to his chin for a moment. The Plegians tended to fight to the death, like they were frenzied, or under the effects of some sort of spell. That wasn’t the case with everyone that the Shepherds had fought. What if they took their weapons from a force that they could disarm, or scare away. Using tactics like that on villages of civilians would be total villainy, but using a strategy like that on villains was perfectly acceptable.

“Bandits.” Robin looked up, a soft smile gracing his features.

“Excuse me?” Lucina’s eyebrows quirked as she tried to decide if her father was being accused of banditry.

The tactician waved his hand in an attempt to swipe away the misunderstanding, “Taking supplies from the Plegians always gets us in fights that leave us with less than we started with. I’m suggesting we track down a bandit camp and take their supplies.”

Chrom frowned softly, “Bandits aren’t known for giving their weapons the care they deserve.” He thought back to the battered axes and swords that he had turned away in his last battle.

“That’s because they just steal things when they need new weapons.” Anna spoke up, “Why spend coin on something that you’re just going to replace by stealing from someone later?”

Robin nodded quickly, “Exactly.” His lips were still a tight smile, “They don’t have any loyalty to their weapons, so they’ll leave them behind to save themselves.” He looked about the room, “This strategy also has the advantage of clearing out bandits, which might take some of the fear out of the villages that we bargain with.”

The warrior king slowly nodded, bringing his hand to his chin as he contemplated the solution, “That does make sense…”

Robin gave a sharp nod as he looked down at the map again, “Alright, so we’ll send out the scouts to find any big bandit activity. We should still send some groups to local villages to try and barter for any supplies that we can.” He looked up, “We’ll rotate out anyone who was wounded in the recent fights to give them a chance to recover.” He looked over to Chrom, “Do you think Lissa and Stahl need some time to get used to the fact that Owain is here?”

It was a thing that Robin had been struggling with ever since this situation with the children from the future came about. There had been some strange issues that had come up where people were struggling with the idea that relationships might actually help build their fighting force. Robin had thought that he had navigated that particular minefield quite well when he had promised that he was not going to impose relationships. The idea of ordering people to love each other was patently absurd.

That being said, the personnel issues hadn’t gone away when he had dealt with that. Like most problems related to people, when he had ‘solved’ it, it had really just pivoted into a different set of problems to manage. Did people who suddenly had a child from the future need time off to deal with that change? How much time did they need to figure out their new family unit? Could the parents deal with the fact that their child was ready to run into a dangerous battlefield?

“They should probably be fine.” Chrom spoke softly, his eyes looking over the map, “I hear that kid of theirs is a bit of a handful and already eager to test himself in battle.”

Making Chrom the last voice on these topics had really been the best move. He clearly cared about all of their troops personally, so everyone knew he acted with their best interests at heart. At the same time, he was essentially the highest voice of authority for them, so when he said something, people did it. It had also taken a lot of the pressures of sorting out these interpersonal issues off of Robin’s plate, which the strategist greatly appreciated.

The strategist nodded before placing his palms on the table and pushing himself up to his feet, “We can figure out deployments in the morning. For now everyone should get some rest.” He expected that he was going to have a long night convincing Tharja that not taking her to assault a bandit camp was the right choice.

oOoOo

The cool night air filled the inside of the tent. While a solitary candle had been lit, it was not having much success in the battle against the darkness. Instead, the dancing flame only served to create long and eerie writhing shadows on the floor and walls of the tent. The peaceful area that had served so well as a place for Robin to sleep seemed soaked in a mysterious and alluring atmosphere.

Robin paid little attention to the inside of his tent as he slipped through the flap at the front. He slipped his cloak off of his shoulders, hanging it on the hook of a coatrack. He had expected to start a conversation with a certain dark mage the moment he got to his tent. He had figured she’d be all too eager to propose that she follow him like a shadow from now on instead of not joining him for more social missions. The moment of peace was refreshing.

“I’ve been waiting for you.” The voice of the sorceress cut through the silence.

Tharja had indeed been waiting for the arrival of the strategist, not to engage him in conversation about their future missions. Instead, the shadowy sorceress was stretched over the bed. It wouldn’t have been all that notable had she been wearing clothes. While her lower half was hidden by a black sheet that she had draped over her form, the naked expanse of her back was displayed in all of its glory, her chest hugging right to the bed below her.

Robin was growing familiar with this kind of tactic from Tharja, “Oh? Why were you waiting for me?”

The sorceress pouted slightly at Robin’s non-reaction, but didn’t let her disappointment slow the progress of her plan, “Well, I bought a vulnerary to finish treatment on this wound…” Her lips formed a devious smile as she lifted the jar from the end table with just her thumb and forefinger, “Unfortunately I can’t reach my back, so I was hoping you might be able to help me.”

A long sigh slipped past the lips of the white haired strategist. He moved to her from the front of tent quickly, before bringing his hand up, his fingers gently plucking the small jar of viscous fluid from Tharja’s grasp. A soft frown graced his features as he looked down at the fluid then to Tharja. The sorceress was watching him closely with greedy and eager eyes, the pink tip of her tongue slipping out just enough to trail over the edge of her lips.

“Any of the healers could have done this for you.” Robin spoke softly. Honestly, the healers could have done it without her having to buy the vulnerary. She didn’t really _need_ him to do this. While there was a contested debate about the benefits of applying it to a wound versus ingesting the contents of a vulnerary, the scratch that was left on her back after the field healing she had received hardly merited the use of an item.

Tharja’s bottom lip protruded in a pout. From his previous experience with her, Robin had expected her to start into some sort of mind game. She would find a way to justify this, to tell him that this was all for the Shepherds. She’d bring up advantages like how this wouldn’t take the healers away from people who actually needed healing. With vulneraries on sale, she’d mention that this was the fiscally responsible option. If all else failed, he expected her to mention that she didn’t trust the healers, and so she had chosen someone closer to her.

“They could have.” She started, her dark eyes trailing over his body, “But that would have lacked the advantage of skinship with my husband.”

In his mental preparation for her skillful wordplay, Robin hadn’t prepared himself for her to just be open about her desires. His eyes slowly trailed over all of the skin that she was presenting him with. When he layered his previous experience with Tharja and this setup, her getting right to the point had been the last thing that he had expected. She had always teased and toyed with him, eventually getting exactly what she wanted but only after winning at her little game.

Robin slowly reached forward, his fingers brushing some errant strands of her raven hair over her shoulder, “I suppose that’s true.” His fingertips moved down to play over the hot skin at the back of her neck, “Of course, I’m not exactly trained in the healing arts, you realize.”

A pleasant shiver ran up and down Tharja’s spine as she felt the fingers of her lover gently trace over her skin, “I suppose you don’t.” A satisfied sigh slipped past her lips as she slowly closed her eyes, “Yet I feel like your touch offers a better quality of healing than any staff could.”

The strategist felt his cheeks burn with a fresh blush at those words. Tharja had always had a way of making his heart beat faster, but it was vulnerable moments of honesty like that one that really got to him. She had confessed to being a chameleon, with a willingness to change herself in any way that would better suit his tastes. Claims like that sometimes made it hard to know if the Tharja that he was looking at was genuine. Something about the way she sounded when she said something emotional like that seemed too genuine to question.

His fingers slowly traveled down between her shoulders, running down the rough edges of the healed wound, “Well, after the work Lissa did in the field, there won’t even be a scar.” His eyes left wound, to find Tharja’s closed eyes, “Are we sure we need a vulnerary for this?”

Tharja wrapped her arms around a pillow, hugging it tightly to her face, “It’s evidence of my failure.” She stared into the darkness of the tent, “I need to erase that weakness.”

Robin closed his eyes before sliding onto the bed, straddling the witch’s legs. Tharja squirmed for a moment, but relaxed again when Robin placed a warm palm on her back. His eyes trailed over the remnants of the healed wound again. It was the solitary mark on her otherwise unblemished skin. If she had told him that the real problem was that she only wanted him to see her in a state of perfection he would have accepted that as truth.

The strategist made quick work of opening the jar of healing medicine. He slowly turned the jar, letting gravity draw the viscous fluid over the glass lip, and down to the porcelain skin of Tharja’s back. The witch let out a soft gasp as the cool fluid splashed against her back, her body shifting instinctively in an attempt to gain some distance from the moderately unpleasant sensation.

She turned her head to shoot him a dangerous glare, “You could have used your fingers for that.”

“I could have.” Robin agreed, his lips forming a sly smile, “I did warn you that I’m not a healer.”

The strategist’s fingers moved quickly spreading the dribbles of vulnerary over his wife’s back. He pressed into her muscles with his thumbs and fingertips, gently massaging the healing substance into her skin. While the sudden application of the cool fluid may have been shocking and unpleasant, the firm massage that had followed was less so. His fingertips not only worked the medicine into her skin, but worked out the knots in her muscles, drawing out the stress of her earlier battle.

Robin’s fingers dragged the thin layer of medicine over what remained of the wound. The vulnerary worked like magic, wearing away at the dried and cracked skin, leaving nothing but the perfect, unbroken skin of Tharja’s back behind. In a day or two, the remaining scratch would have naturally fallen away to this, but the vulnerary would clear away any lingering worries of a scar.

“There.” Robin smile softly, slowly drawing his fingers away from Tharja’s skin, “Good as new.” He placed his left hand into the soft surface of the bed, shifting his weight in it as he prepared to hop off.

Tharja stared into the darkness of the tent and spoke softly, barely more than a whisper, “Are you already growing tired of me?”

Robin stopped, a cold feeling trickling down around his heart at that question, “What?”

Her eyes flickered to his left hand, focusing on the cheap ring of brass that adorned his finger. She bit her bottom lip, trying not to think too hard about the implications of their union being symbolized by such a cheap hunk of metal. The ring was not the only thing that had worked its way into her mind, tormenting her with the possibilities of a future that didn’t include her and Robin having their happily ever after. She felt like everything around her was hinting at the possibility that this was all a brief dream, ready to turn to ash as she reached out to hold it.

“It’s fine.” She closed her eyes again, turning her head into the pillow to hide her expression. She knew that no matter how well she had forged her mask, these emotions would bleed through if she let them, “I can only imagine how much easier it would be for you not to be tied to me.”

“What are you talking about?” Robin looked down at the trembling shoulders of the witch, “Where is this even coming from, Tharja?”

Tharja squeezed the pillow closer to her chest, “You picked that cheap ring…” She muttered the words, not proud of them as they left her lips.

The strategist sighed, suspecting that the ring being made of brass would eventually become an issue, “Tharja…” He looked down at the ring for a long moment, “This ring is strong enough to survive our battles.” He ran his thumb along the inside edge of the thin band of brass, “It may be inexpensive, but that means I don’t feel guilty when people tell me that they need more war funds.”

Honestly, the simple brass band had always just been meat to be a placeholder. He had a smith in a farming town hammer it together. The smith had thrown the simple band in as a special gift as they had been getting their gear repaired at the same time. It had seemed like a nice compromise, giving him a wedding band, and not dipping into the war-chest. If he was being perfectly honest, the thin band of hard metal had been growing on him ever since, and the thought of changing it out left a hollow feeling behind.

Robin started softly, “If it bothers you that much-”

“It isn’t about the ring!” Tharja cut him off, her fingers curling into tight fists around the pillow. She bit her bottom lip so hard that she thought it might draw blood. How could he think that this was really about the ring? It was about so much more than that. Everything was pointing to things not working out. How could he not see it?

The strategist remained as still as possible. Slipping off of the bed at this point might somehow confirm Tharja’s fears. More dangerously than that, if he got off of her, she’d be able to move freely again, and he wasn’t sure how she might lash out if he let her go. He held his breath, unsure of what to say to calm the worries of the woman he loved. Perhaps it was best that he say nothing and just be there for her. He had heard that was sometimes the case. At the moment it was certainly the only thing that he could think to do.

She took a long breath, her eyes staring over the edge of the pillow into the darkness inside of the tent, “Don’t you think it’s strange?” The words were barely more than a whisper when they finally left her lips.

“There are a lot of strange things in our lives.” Robin smiled weakly hoping that the weak attempt at humour might defuse this situation, “You’ll have to elaborate.”

Tharja felt her lips twitch into a slight frown. While she didn’t appreciate humour in this situation, she could appreciate the intent behind it, “It seems like every other couple in the Shepherds has one of these future children.”

Robin let out a long sigh before slowly running his fingers over Tharja’s shoulders and the back of her neck, “That’s what this is about?”

“Every other couple has one. It has to mean that you lose interest in me before I can grant you a child.” Tharja growled the words, her jealousy making itself known once more.

The strategist let out a low sigh, “It doesn’t _have_ to mean that.”

The question of these children from the future was one that he had been dealing with for a while. It was true that most of the couples had brought about some child from the future in the weeks after their union was complete. It had been generally accepted that eventually all of the couples would end up having at least one of these future children. If someone stopped and thought about the implications of all of this time-travel business, it didn’t necessarily mean that every couple would see their child from the future.

What would happen if a couple couldn’t conceive for whatever reason was one of the thoughts upon which Robin had been focusing. While the situation of same-sex couples hadn’t come up with his troops, but he wondered how a time-travel spell that granted future children to every couple would deal with such a hurdle. There was also the odd paradox that he had tried not to dwell too hard on, of what would happen if a child came back from the future and then one of their parents died. Honestly, if he thought about it, that seemed a more likely reason as to why his child from the future hadn’t come back. He dared not say such a thing to Tharja.

“All of this time-travel stuff is weird and hard to think about.” Robin chose his words carefully to avoid any specific scenarios, “There could be any number of reasons that we haven’t found our future child yet.”

Tharja closed her eyes tightly and shook her head, “I know I don’t have a people-pleasing personality, and in the end it was only a matter of time before you lost interest in my body.”

The strategist was running out of ways that he could maneuver his way out of a bad situation, “I don’t mind your personality.” He traced his fingertips down her back a little, “The way you’re so guarded around everyone else makes me feel more special for getting past that shell to the you I get to see right now.”

Tharja winced slightly, and let her body go limp as if accepting a greater defeat, “So it _is_ my body that you’re losing interest in.”

Robin let out a long sigh as his fingers trailed down the sides of her back, tickling gently over her ribs, “Clearly that can’t be true.” His fingertips ventured a little further as he moved to cup his palms over her breasts, “Your body is essentially a wet dream come to life.” He smiled as he heard her breath catch in her throat, “It seems much more likely that in this future you lose interest in me.”

Tharja screwed her eyes shut as Robin’s teasing fingers squeezed and toyed with her breasts, “Nnngh…Don’t be cruel.” She arched her body, trying to give him better access to her chest, while also trying to push back into him in any way that she could, “You’re the only person I’ve ever been interested in.”

The strategist tilted his head slightly, focusing his mind on his wandering fingers. Her skin felt hot under his touch, and he could feel every shudder in her breath through his fingertips. He blew his cool breath over the back of her neck, watching goosebumps rise from her flesh. The strong will of the witch vanished under the careful attentions of her lover, melting away her defences. She was powerless, to fight against the gentle attentions that he lavished upon her body.

“It’s an odd thing when you know something with all of your heart but someone fears it isn’t true, isn’t it?” Robin whispered softly, his fingers still groping and kneading at the witch’s chest, “How would someone prove that they hadn’t lost interest in someone else?” He leaned forward, bringing his lips to the edge of her ear, “If I doubted you, how could you possibly put those fears to rest?”

Tharja let out a whimpering moan as Robin narrowed the focus of his fingers onto her nipples, “Ahhhn! Please…” He pinched and teased at her, his position on her legs keeping her pinned to the bed below him, a helpless victim for his lustful fingers. Her eyes screwed shut and she continued to let out little murmured moans as Robin rolled each nipple between a thumb and forefinger.

“Anything.” The word left Tharja’s lips as more of a gasp than an actual word, “I’d do anything you asked.” She bit her bottom lip, “I’d invite you to do anything that you wanted to me.” She turned her head to the side, trying to look back at her lover, “Whatever it takes.”

The corners of the strategist’s lips turned up in a slight smile, “That’s quite the bold claim.”

Robin’s fingers began their slow tortuous journey downward, his fingertips dragging over the thin layer of skin over her ribs. Tharja’s body pulled back either as an involuntary reaction to escape the ticklish sensation, or in a desperate attempt to give her lover better access to her body. She had lost her grasp onto the worries that had plagued her, her slipping into a wash of hormones and pleasant sensations.

The witch found herself holding her breath as Robin’s fingertips traveled over her flat stomach. One of his fingers caught on the edge of her bellybutton, and for a moment his movements stopped as if his hands had been snagged in the small depression. A soft coo left the witch’s lips as her lover’s burning palms pressed flat against her skin. His every touch was like a burning electricity dancing through her skin before running through every nerve.

A low moan ripped past Tharja’s lips as the devious and hungry fingers found their way further south to the heat between her thighs. The cunning fingertips that had been teasing over her skin suddenly found the burning wetness of her sex. An index finger trailed along the lips of her entrance, probing gently for a moment. The sorceress squirmed slightly, her knuckles turning white from the force she was using to grip onto her pillow. The finger probed for a moment more before slowly wriggling its way between her tight folds into her hidden warmth.

Robin leaned forward, his lips leaving a trail of hungry kisses from her shoulder to the side of her neck. His hot breath tickled over her skin as he drew his lips back far enough to let sensual whispers dance over the edge of her ear, “You’re already soaked.” His finger wriggled between her tight folds for a moment, causing the witch to let a dark moan out into her pillow, “I guess I won’t get to take advantage of the offer of ‘anything’ today.”

“What about -nnnnghnnn- you?” Tharja fought to get the question out between hard gasps that robbed her of breath, and low moans that broke apart her words, “How will you -uughnn- prove that you -huff- still want me?”

The strategist smirked softly as he pressed himself forward, the hardness in his pants pressing against her round behind. A second finger probed at the witch’s opening as he lips tickled against her ear with hot whispers once more, “Obviously I don’t make a habit of taking what I don’t want.”

Tharja’s body shuddered at the constant pleasures that Robin continued to use to assault her body, “Robinnnnnnnn-“ She let out a mournful sound, unsatisfied with Robin’s answer to her concerns, but desperate for every lingering touch. Her bottom lip trembled as she let out a whimpering plea, “Please…” She screwed her eyes shut, “…don’t leave me."

Robin let out a low sigh, his finger still sliding in and out of the tight heat nestled between the witch’s thighs, “I’ll always come back to you.” He smiled and placed a kiss just behind her ear, “If this is all because we don’t have a child from the future, that’s something that we can work on.”

“What?” Tharja quirked an eyebrow, looking back to Robin.

The strategist chuckled softly at the slightly confused expression on the witch’s face, “Do you really need me to explain?” His thrusting fingers began to pick up their pace a little bit, causing the witch to squirm beneath him, letting out mewling moans and gasps for air.

“I don’t-“ The sorceress lost her voice in a sharp moan, “Aaahhnnn! Robin! What are you-“

“I know I said I needed my rest.” He smiled softly and kissed at the back of her neck, “So, we’ll make a deal.” He drew the hand that wasn’t plundering her depths away from her, instead pulling at his own clothes, “Every time one of us comes back from a mission, we’ll make an attempt.”

Tharja struggled against her ragged breathing as Robin continued to thrust his fingers in and out of her, “Ah! Robin!” Her muscles squeezed around his fingers, her hips bucking against his hand as her body was racked with waves of pleasure. Her lungs burned with every ragged breath, “I can’t -AAAanghh- You’re making me-eeEEEennnmmm!” Tharja’s body shuddered as she lost herself in a final wave of pleasure before going slack in Robin’s grasp.

The strategist smiled softly as he slowly drew his fingers from her quivering depths, “Ah, I hadn’t considered the possibility that you wouldn’t give me an answer.”

A wordless groan between harsh gasps for breath was the only audible response from the witch. She still felt jolts of pleasure shoot through her body at every brush of his calloused fingertips over her heated skin. She felt like she was losing her mind, her body begging for a short respite to recover, while still longing for him to drown her in erotic joy. Tharja let out a wordless groan as Robin’s moist fingertips curled over the curve of her hip towards her aching core.

“I was thinking that after the mission debriefing we’d return to the tent for _debriefing_.” His fingertips brushed over the entrance that they had not so long ago retreated from, “From past experience I know that isn’t too often for you. Perhaps you’re worried that it would mean we engaged in these activities less.” His teeth gently grazed over the edge of her ear, “I was just proposing that we promise to at least partake on those occasions.”

Tharja felt like all of the energy had been sapped from her body. She had thought that maybe she had put the weakness and exhaustion of the mission earlier behind her. Under the constant attention of Robin’s expert fingers, she had found that the tired vulnerability had once again claimed her body. Even if she wanted to protest, every electrical touch of Robin’s fingers on her skin stole away her breath. The delicious torture left her feeling like a marionette who’s strings had been cut.

Robin let his hot breath tickle over the back of Tharja’s neck, “I suppose we should figure out what to do if one of us is too tired.” He smirked and kissed at the back of her neck quickly, “I suppose if one of us _was_ too tired, there is something a little bit sexy about that being taken advantage of when you’re helpless.” His fingers slowly drew out of the moist heat of her core before sliding over her hips again, “Like if you were too tired to move, I might slip in behind you, pull your hips into position, and fuck you while you buried your face into your pillow.” He smiled as he gently nudged up on her hips, “But a strong independent sorceress like you would never be interested in something like that.”

Tharja drew on what felt like the last dregs of her energy, willing her body to move. The witch drew her knees knees under her, and pushed her hips up in her best approximation of the position that the strategist had described. Her bottom lip trembled, her breathing slowing to a more regular pace now that the strategist was no longer teasing her most sensitive areas. When the strategist did not immediately take advantage of their new positions to make good on his threat, she began to rock her hips in an inviting display of her impatience.

The witch let out an agitated groan, “You may regret -huff- giving me permission to -sigh- take what I want when you’re the one exhausted…”

The soft tone of Robin’s chuckle was like warm honey to her ears, “You might be right.” He held her hip holding her in place. His free hand slipped back, taking advantage of the fact that he had stripped himself of his pants during his teasing of the witch. Slowly he dragged the bulbous head of his erection up and down the weeping lips of her sensitive sex, “On the other hand, your threat to tip the scales might have less impact if I know I’d enjoy that too.”

Tharja let out a weak whimper, “Maybe I’ll just -MMNN- tease you until you break.” She whimpered again, putting up a weak struggle against his one-handed grip on her hip. If only she had been able to recover more of her strength, breaking his grip on her and claiming the pleasure that she wanted would be simple. The attack on her had taken a toll, and these moments of frustration made that all the more real for her.

Another low moan escaped the lustful witch as her strategist continued to tease her with agonizing pleasure, “AAAhhnn! How can you -mmMMnn- say that I’m -huff- irresistible and be satisfied -ughn- with this torture?” She made another failed attempt at rolling her hips free.

Robin chuckled softly, “A certain level of foreplay is important to get you read. I wouldn’t want to hurt you.”

Tharja groaned, feeling her fluids run down the inside of her thighs, “Robinnnnn-“ She closed her eyes tight, her mind a mix of hormones and duelling emotions, “With how ‘ready’ I am -nnnn- you couldn’t hurt me if you -aaahnn - tried.”

Robin’s fingers came up, curling over the curve of her hips. The bulbous head of his erection was still pressed into the dripping slit of her sex. He shifted his fingers slightly, making sure that she wouldn’t be able to slip out of his grip when he answered her challenge. Through the hazy cloud of excited hormones, a voice in Tharja’s mind tried to warn her of the the dangers of challenging her lover in such a way. The warning came too late to prepare the witch, as Robin’s strong arms pulled back on her hips in time with his sharp thrust forward.

White light exploded behind Tharja’s eyelids at the sudden feeling of being filled. Her lover’s tortuous teasing had pushed her to the very edge, and then Robin had unceremoniously hurled her over that edge. Her lips were parted in a scream that had no sound because of the exodus of air from her lungs. Her body twitched and spasmed struggling against the sudden overwhelming sensations. The muscles of her sex pulsed and squeezed against his member as the hard waves of orgasm crashed against every nerve in her body.

Robin grit his teeth against the sudden assault of pleasure on his system. His fingers gripped tight to her hips, and before she could ride out the dregs of her pleasured high, he began his movement. Her inner muscles gripped and pulled at him, desperate not to let him slip out of her tight warmth. Her hips twitched slightly in his grasp as she fought her own exhaustion, and his rigid grip for just enough control to rock her hips back against his.

Tharja’s mind was a hazy mixture of pleasure and confusion as her lover continued to draw his hips back. Her mind struggled with the question of why he would come so far just to pull back now. She bit her bottom lip, considering that reaching the peak so early had left Robin feeling like his job was complete. If all of this had really just been for her benefit, perhaps he was trying to make a statement by stopping early.

The strategist drove his hips forward in another powerful thrust. His hips slapped against hers hard enough to push her forward into the pillow that she had been gripping to her chest. The white light of pleasured madness once again filled the witch’s vision. Once more her lips were parted by a scream that she lacked the breath to give a voice.

She fought desperately to catch her breath in the hopes that it might give her enough strength to offer some contribute to this carnal dance. When she stopped lying to herself she knew that the only difference two full lungs of air would offer would be her wordless cries and helpless mewls of pleasure. Her body was too tired for her to do much more than accept Robin’s fevered passion. She took a dark pleasure in her own helplessness to do anything but accept Robin’s powerful thrusts.

Robin let out small grunts as his powerful thrusts continued. Every time he drove his own hips forward, he used his tight grip to pull her hips back to meet him. Every movement that he made seemed like an attempt to claim her deepest parts. His lover let out helpless noises of pleasure between sharp gasps for breath as he continued his reckless pounding of her helpless form.

The desperate pace that he had started proved not to be sustainable. Robin could feel his end churning deep inside of him, the heated pleasure threatening to burst forth at any moment. Perhaps his original intention had been to draw out this session, to push the witch as far as her debauched mind could take. It was becoming clear that he did not have much more that he could offer to that particular goal.

Tharja felt her mind slowly going blank under the constant assault of pleasure. The witch’s vision had become unfocused, staring out intothe abyss. Her mouth hung open in wordless moans as she surrendered to a world of pleasure that she could not control. She could no longer feel the burning of her lungs struggling for breath, or the ache of her muscles. She could hardly tell where one orgasm ended and another began. Everything faded away until all that was left was the feel of her juices running down her legs, and the friction of his length as it slid in and out of her twitching sex.

Robin gave out a groan as his hips crashed against Tharja’s for his final thrust. His length twitched in her deepest parts before paining her insides with his sticky white seed. The molten explosion deep in her core caused Tharja to let out her own dark moan as he pussy gripped at his length desperate to milk him for every last drop.

Spent and tired, Robin slowly drew his hips back, finally releasing his grip on Tharja’s hips. The witch’s body slumped over onto the bed unceremoniously. The strategist finally noticed the feeling of his sweat-matted hair sticking to his forehead, and the tired ache of his own muscles. It hadn’t seemed like an issue when he had been focused entirely on driving the witch mad with carnal pleasure. He smiled softly as he let himself fall to the bed, and stared into her hazy eyes.

Once he had finally caught his breath the strategist let out a soft chuckle, “I think we have both earned a little rest after that, don’t you?”

The witch’s lips curled into a soft smile as she dragged her shaky hand up to place it against his chest, “Rest well, Robin.” A mischievous light danced in her eyes as she stared at him, “After all, two of us returned home from a mission safe.” Her voice had a slightly cruel tone as she spoke, “I believe that entitles me to another…what did you call it, ‘ _debriefing_ ’?”

Robin swallowed hard at the memory of their deal, and the consequences that it now threatened to have, “Surely you-”

“Mmmm…” Tharja cut him off with that usual devious smile that seemed to spell out the scandalous thoughts that lived deep in the shadows of her mind, “Surely you didn’t think I’d miss an opportunity to enjoy you.” Her eyes flashed with something that almost felt like malice, “I’ll dream of the revenge I’ll take come morning.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Will Robin survive Tharja's revenge? Will the cunning plan to steal from the bandits solve the Shepards' resource woes? Will Robin's new agreement with Tharja result in them meeting a new child from the future? Could something more sinister be standing between Tharja and proof of her future happiness? Tune in next time! Same bat-time! Same bat-channel!


	3. The Hex Of A Bad Situation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With the plan to raid the enemy in place, all that's left is to put it into action. What challenges face Gaius and Robin when they undertake a daring heist.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I got a good chunk into this chapter, then I got stuck getting from one thing to the next thing for a while. That's why this chapter took so long. I'm really, really hoping that the next chapter doesn't take as long as this one did. As always, tell me if I made any mistakes, or if things from the start of the chapter don't line up with things at the end of the chapter (because I may have forgotten about something while I was dealing with being stuck).
> 
> Also, I'm not sure how I feel about the title of this chapter. I thought it was fun to take a turn on the phrase "The best of a bad situation", but you know how I am with my titles...

The dust and grit of the country path crackled and popped under the soles of Robin’s boots. The white haired strategist let out a soft yawn as he idly brought his hand up to rub at the back of his neck. A soft breeze carried the fresh scents of the country through the air as it tickled at Robin’s skin. The mid-day sun filtered through the leaves of the trees that hung over the dirt path. Serene moments like this one could make someone forget about the threats of things like war, or the apocalyptic plans of a terrifying Fell Dragon.

“If you’re tired you could have stayed back at camp.” A young man with fiery red hair followed a few steps behind the strategist. The cape that hung from his shoulders was the dull colour of dirt and shadows, perfect for his profession as a thief. A thin stick made of tightly rolled paper hung from the corner of his mouth, the honeyed scent of his breath betraying the secret of the sweet at its other end.

Robin let out a soft groan as he thought back to the morning’s activities so far, “Yeah, I don’t think I’d get much rest back at the camp, Gaius.”

Gaius laced his fingers together behind the back of his head, “So the missus is still running you ragged all night?” He flashed the strategist a knowing smile, “That must be _rough_.”

The strategist closed his eyes, taking in a long breath to deal with the thief’s gentle ribbing. In all honesty, no matter how much he enjoyed his time with Tharja, it did sometimes take a visible toll on him. It had never had a negative impact on his ability to come up with strategies or be in the field, but he could understand the thief’s concerns. They were on a mission to scout out an enemy base with the hope of stealing their things. If he made a mistake it could end up getting them in a fight they weren’t ready for.

As far as plans went, this was neither the best, nor the worst that Robin had ever come up with. The Shepards had sent out a handful of scouting parties to identify bandit bases. All of the groups had remained small to avoid drawing any unnecessary levels of attention. Arranging small groups of two hadn’t been too much of a challenge. A number of the Shepards had been excited for the opportunity to head out on a private mission away from the camp with their significant other.

For most of the pairings, the mission ended when they saw something suspicious. For Robin and Gaius, the mission could go a little bit further thanks to the sweet connoisseur’s talent for having sticky fingers. If they found a camp and it didn’t seem too risky, they could take the extra step of seeing what they could grab right away. That was the reason that Robin had been paired with the thief, as he had a keen eye for assessing risk. As Anna had a similar talent for relieving people of their goods, she had been paired up with Chrom to form a similar party.

Robin’s instructions had been to put personal safety first in this mission. He knew that most of the groups were going to follow those instructions without question. When it came to _his_ group, Robin knew he would probably shift that priority down a little bit. It wasn’t that he was going to take unnecessary risks when it came to their group or anything. It was just that Gaius was very skilled at the trade of thievery, and if it came down to a little personal risk, Robin was willing to take it.

The strategist smiled weakly as he ran his thumb along the inside of the brass ring that adorned his finger. Tharja likely wouldn’t have liked the fact that he was willing to take a few risks with his own life. He probably wouldn’t have even considered taking such risks if he had paired up with Anna instead of the sweet tooth thief. The choice that he had made to keep the sorceress from becoming jealous would likely lead to him making other decisions that she would be even less happy with.

“You know, I could steal a nicer ring for you if you’d like.” The thief’s well trained eyes followed the movement of Robin’s fingers as closely. It was a habit that he had developed as a thief. The hands of people who were deep in thought tended to betray the location of valuables. It was also a good practice to always know if your mark was reaching for a blade.

Robin shook his head slowly, thinking back to his wife’s complains from the previous night, “I’m sure Tharja would appreciate if you did, but no, I prefer this one.”

Gaius shrugged, “I mean…you didn’t get swindled or anything, right? You do know that isn’t worth anything?”

With a soft chuckle, Robin shook his head again, “I do.” He cast a knowing glance and a weak smile back at Gaius, “Any thief with the talent to steal it knows it isn’t worth anything too.”

The thief let out a loud laugh, caught off guard by the response, “Yeah, I guess it kind of is its own theft deterrent.” He rubbed the back of his head, still wearing the beaming smile on his lips, “Of course, as long as you’ve got me for a friend, I could always steal it back for you.” He shrugged, “Apparently a life of picking locks has trained my fingers to do a fair job of making them too.”

“I appreciate the offer, Gaius.” Robin smiled weakly, “Speaking of rings, how has life with Panne been?”

The thief shrugged as he continued to follow the strategist, “I’ve seen less of her lately with all of her recent trips to forage for food, but other than that I have no complaints.”

Robin grimaced slightly at the thief’s only complaint, “Sorry about that.”

Gaius responded with another shrug, “An army’s gotta eat. Nothing to be done about it.” He closed his eyes, smiling as the wind tickled through his hair, causing the long ends of his headband to sway slightly, “Honestly, I prefer knowing that she and Yarne have the safe job while I’m the one out here with you.”

It was a statement that Robin understood better than the thief might have realized. In the morning strategy meeting his excuse for not assigning Tharja to one of the groups had been that she was a bit _bristly_ when it came to other people. Even if she was, that had hardly been the reason. After what had happened on their previous mission, the strategist was feeling reluctant to put her in any situation that could be dangerous. If there were risks to be taken, he’d rather that he be the one at risk.

Robin knew he wasn’t going to be able to make the decision forever. If he kept sidelining Tharja on risky missions eventually someone would take notice. It wasn’t fair to the rest of the Shepards and they would tell him so. How could he tell them to send their loved ones into danger if he wasn’t willing to do the same? More than that, if Tharja found out that he was treating her like a porcelain doll, ‘violent’ would likely be a kind way to describe her reaction.

He just needed some time for things to settle down. He needed time for the thought of bandits doing unspeakable things to his wife to leave his mind. He needed time to know that Tharja had recovered from her wounds. What he really needed was enough time to talk to his wife and make sure that her emotional state was stable after what she had been through. If it was this deep in his head, he could hardly imagine what it had done to her.

Frustratingly, Robin knew that finding his own child from the future would probably go a long way to solving those problems. They were out on a mission to solve the problem that the children from the future had presented. It bothered him that deep inside he was hoping for another new recruit that they were going to need to find a tent and a weapon for. He had to admit, it would be reassuring to find that he too had a son or daughter from the future.

Tharja had been concerned that the fact they hadn’t found one yet meant trouble for their relation. Once the missing member of their family group had been brought to the centre focus of Robin’s attention, his mind had gone in a different direction. What if the reason that they didn’t have a child from the future was because one of them died?

It was a dark thought, born from the seed of Tharja having been so close to a terrible end during their last mission. What if he hadn’t been able to save her? It would have certainly explained why they didn’t have a future child. They were fighting a war, and while death hadn’t managed to touch anyone close to him yet, surely it was only a matter of time.

Gaius broke the strategist out of his dark thoughts by clearing his throat, “Eyes up.”

Robin stopped, quickly casting his gaze through the breaks in the trees to the field beyond. Most of what he saw was typical of an abandoned farmer’s field, with lush grass, but little of note. It took him a moment to spot what the eagle-eyed thief had been trying to draw his attention to. Among a settlement of rubble and ruined foundations stood a collection of tents. While Robin couldn’t be sure from this distance, they appeared to be flying the Plegian flag.

The strategist found himself slipping into a crouch as if trying to hide himself from the danger that such a flag represented. The thief seemed less concerned about hiding his presence. The trees that had been planted on either side of the path had likely been meant as a wind-break to offer travellers a little shelter, or keep seeds from blowing from one field to the next. Now they served as a veil of cover. The same reason it had taken Robin a few extra moments to spot the tents, likely meant they were safe, at least for now.

“Not too many tents. Looks like a Plegian scouting party.” Robin whispered, moving to hug his body against the trunk of a tree.

Gaius brought his hand up, idly turning the stick that hung from his mouth as his eyes scanned the rubble, “I’m not spotting any lookouts. Could be they don’t have enough men.” He felt his lips twist into a wry smile, “Could be that they’re cocky and don’t think they need it.”

The strategist nodded quickly, “They might just be out trying to pressure local villages into donating to their war-coffers.” It made sense. A show of force followed by taking things fit more with the Plegian sense of morality than the Shepards, but it might have worked better than trading, “You don’t need a lot of lookouts if you’re just terrorizing civilians.”

“More of them might show up if we fight them.” Gaius clicked his teeth against the candy at the end of the stick, “I came out here with empty pockets and plans to fill them, so it isn’t like I’m equipped for a proper fight.”

“We can’t leave them here.” Robin furrowed his brow, looking out at the tent, and considering his various options.

Gaius let out a soft sigh, “Well…” He paused for a moment, his teeth clicking against the candy in his mouth again, “We could come back and deal with them after we’ve stolen the new gear. It’d give us a chance to test it out.”

The strategist suddenly froze in place, his thumb and forefinger curled around his chin. His eyes flashed over to the set of tents amongst the rubble in the field. The enemy’s numbers were small. They had to be with so few tents. It meant that if things didn’t get complicated their largest liability in a battle was probably the limited supplies that they had on hand. This wouldn’t be the first time he had tackled that kind of problem with his strategies.

“We could just kill two birds with one stone here.” Robin slowly turned his gaze over to the thief, knowing that Gaius would pick up on what he was saying.

The thief rubbed at the back of his head vigorously in minor frustration as he looked out to the tents, “I thought stealing from the Plegians was off the table.”

Robin gave a curt nod as he locked eyes with the thief, “That’s because we can’t use anything we steal from the Risen, and the idea of picking weapons off of the dead leaves a bad taste in everyone’s mouths.” He turned his eyes back to the camp, “I don’t see any Risen, and I don’t have any problem in stealing from Plegians who are still alive.”

It really made all of the sense in the world. The Plegians tended to have better maintained gear than bandits did. Every weapon that they took away from them was a weapon that couldn’t be used against the Shepards. Unlike bandits, Plegians tended to have at least a few mages, which meant this was a chance to get the tomes that they also needed. This plan even had the benefit that if they pulled it off properly, they might even get a few prisoners when the Plegians realized they couldn’t fight back.

Gaius let out a long, defeated sigh, “I mean…no lookouts, they are pretty much asking for it, aren’t they?”

Robin’s lips curled into a smile, “Alright.” He turned his gaze back to the camp, “So, as the master thief. What would you suggest? A daring raid, where we sneak into their camp under the cover of night?”

The thief let out a chuckle and shook his head, “Like I said, they don’t have a lookout.” He shifted off of the tree that he was using for cover, “If we wait until nightfall, that’ll probably change.” He clicked his teeth against the candy in his mouth one last time, “No time like the present. Try to stick close.”

With that last instruction, the redheaded thief crouched low to the earth and dashed out into the unkept grass of the field. Robin followed him almost more on instinct than out of an acceptance of the plan. Honestly, this wasn’t really what he had in mind. The strategist had figured that the safe plan was to wait until it was dark, or use some sort of sneaky subterfuge. This plan seemed reckless until he considered the fact that no one was expecting to be robbed in broad daylight.

Two adventurers cut a path through the tall grass of the field. They kept their bodies low, taking advantage of whatever cover the swaying vegetation was able to offer them. Robin followed in the shadow of the dull billowing cloak that Gaius wore. His hope was that the dull earthy tones of the garment would offer some sense of camouflage in the otherwise open field. Given their situation, it seemed prudent to grasp for any advantage that he could see, even if it might be an imagined one.

After a dead sprint, the two Shepards found themselves crouched amongst the rocks at the edge of the field of rubble. The leader of this particular band of Plegians might have shirked his duty to deploy any overwatch, he hadn’t slacked in the other duties involved in setting up camp. The grass amongst the rubble was cut or stamped down, taking away that element of cover within the camp. It meant that more care needed to be applied if the would-be-thieves were to progress any further.

Gaius kept his back pressed snuggly against the rock that the two were currently using for cover. He snapped his eyes shut, his sensitive ears picking up on the sounds of the camp that they were about to invade. He heard a few bits of chatter, and the sounds of armoured feet stepping over rough earth. The layout of the camp was held in his mind, and every sound helped him to assess the locations of soldiers and patrols.

Maintaining his silence, the thief slowly drew his sword. He pushed it forward, the tip finding a home in the clear patch of dirt between the two Shepards. With the the quickness and dexterity that came from years of practice as a thief, Gaius traced out a rough map of the camp in the soft earth. While he wasn’t a tactician like his partner, the thief was well aware of the benefits that a map could offer.

Robin looked down to the map, following the tip of the dagger as it came to rest on a tent at the edge of the camp. If that was where these Plegians were keeping their supplies he didn’t have anything to worry about. Putting the supply tent near the edge of the camp was good for deployment, but it clearly showed that they didn’t expect to get robbed.

After exchanging a nod, the two Shepards were once again on the move. They bolted from one outcropping of rubble to the next, swiftly making their way around the camp. The soft dirt and grass leant itself to their sneaking, cushioning the impact of Robin’s boots much more quietly than the packed earth of the path. Robin followed in the footsteps of Gaius, accepting that it was likely his expertise that was keeping them from being detected. They only stopped their series of mad dashes once they had arrived at the back of what they had determined to be the supply tent.

Gaius once more found himself crouched, his eyes closed as he listened to his surroundings. He could hear the murmurs of a conversation from the other side of the tent, likely guards posted at the entrance. The gentle breeze caused the canvas sides of the tents to buckle and flap slightly, catching the air like sails. The thief listened closely, making sure that he heard nothing from inside the tent before he brought up his sword and set about his work of making a new entrance.

Weapons, staves, tomes, materials for armour repair, these were the sorts of things that they were looking for. Tents were not on the list of the Shepards’ needs. The Annas rarely had trouble tracking down tents, bedrolls, and blankets. What this meant was that the Plegian supply tent was less important than the supplies within. It meant that if cutting a hole in the back of said supply tent made their job easier, that was what they’d do.

Shadows hung in the air inside of the tent like some last dark curtain trying to hide the treasures within. As the two Shepards parted the side of the tent to facilitate their entry, the daylight split the darkness, forcing its retreat like fog retreating from the warm touch of the sun. The edges of weapons and armour gleamed as they reflected the faint amounts of light that cut through the darkness of the Plegian supply tent.

Robin narrowed his eyes slightly as he looked over the contents of the tent. The usual supplies, such as food, vulneraries, and small sachets of coins were to one side of the tent. To the other side was a small collection of spare armour pieces, obviously meant to replace anything that was damaged in combat. At the back, near where they had made their entrance was the weapon-rack, a straight shot from the standard entrance of the tent.

The Shepards slipped through the opening that they had cut into the back of the tent. They moved with a practiced stealth and care, trying to avoid anything that would leave them caught in enemy territory. The only benefit to being caught now would be that they could make it to the enemy supplies faster than the enemy. Perhaps they also had the advantage granted by the surprise of popping up in the middle of the enemy camp as well, but given their circumstances that didn’t seem like all that much of an advantage.

When the strategist turned his attention back to the weapon rack that he had been forced to step around he let out a whisper of a sigh. This group of Plegians had armed themselves with lances and spears. It made sense. While villagers often had rough axes for cutting wood, anyone with any combat talent in a village was more likely to carry a sword for the advantage against axe-wielding bandits. Lances kept the unpredictable frightened villagers at a distance, keeping the Plegians safe. They also provided an advantage against any dagger wielding thieves that might sneak into their camp like Gaius.

Unfortunately, lances and spears were not things that either Gaius or Robin had any talent for. This meant that their ‘advantage’ of being closer to the supplies than the Plegians didn’t mean that they could arm themselves with said supplies. The didn’t mean that they ransack the tent and steal all of the supplies, just that they couldn’t immediately use anything that they pilfered from the Plegians.

Gaius moved before Robin even gave him a motion. He quickly gathered the long weapons from the the rack. He coiled a sheet around them to hold them all together and keep them from rattling before lashing it to his back with a belt from the armour supply. In the art of thievery, the strategy of using stolen goods to transport other stolen goods was just good economy.

Robin’s eyes traced over the inside of tent quickly, before settling on a small box among the coins and other trade-goods. He moved over to the small box, looking in at the pair of small round stones that were held within. He reached out slowly, his fingertips brushing over the smooth surface of one of the polished stones. It was immediately clear to Robin what he was looking at, but the faint touch of magic in the stones would have erased any doubt.

Where the Plegians had found a set of both a Dragonstone and a Beaststone was a mystery that Robin would need to ruminate on. The likeliest scenario was that they were a remnant from a time when shapeshifters like the Taguel had been enslaved. It was also possible that they had been taken as some kind of war-prize during the more recent attempts at genocide. In either case, the Plegian soldiers had far less use for such artifacts than the Shepards did.

Soft light cut through the darkness of the tent, catching on the glittering surface of the magical gemstones. The strategist’s eyes flicked up watching as a tired looking Plegian soldier passed through the yawning opening of the entry flap of the tent. The two would-be-thieves stopped what they were doing, holding their breaths as they locked eyes with the spear-wielding Plegian soldier. The anxiety of the moment sucked the air out of the tent, leaving nothing but a strangling feeling that gripped at everyone’s hearts.

Gaius was the first to recover from the moment of shock. He shot across the room like a rabbit. His short blade was a glimmering edge of light, cutting through the darkness of the tent as it made its murderous journey. The guard was silenced by the cold steal biting into his neck, drowning his startled cries in hot blood. The blade made a sharp noise before snapping, leaving a broken handle in the thief’s hand, and a jagged scrap of metal sticking out of the guard’s neck.

The skilled actions of the thief had bought the Shepards a few moments to set their escape into action. Unfortunately they were alerted to just how few moments they were afforded as the gurgling guard stumbled backwards, falling through the open flap of the tent. They needed to move, and they needed to do it quickly, especially as one of them was now short a weapon.

Robin snapped the lid of the small wooden box closed, thrusting it into the arms of the thief. With his hands free he gripped the handle of the Levin Sword at his hip. The strategist’s mind had run through all of the moves that he had left to him, and he had arrived at one course of action, “I’ll cover you. Get back to camp.”

It was a simple calculation. Gaius was the faster and stealthier of the two of them, so the one who had the better chance of slipping away was the thief. It also just so happened that the one who had all of their pilfered loot was the thief. With his weapon broken, Gaius wouldn’t be able to offer any cover. This really was the only option left to them.

Gaius swallowed hard as he looked at the strategist and gave him a quick nod. As a thief, the strategy of leaving someone behind to secure his escape was not foreign to him. Before the Shepards he wouldn’t have waited for the idea to be suggested. While he’d be lying if he tried to say that he didn’t feel a little bit hesitant to do it now, using a human distraction to cover his own escape was not something that was beyond him. He grit his teeth and with a flap of his long, weathered cape, shot out the hole that they had used to gain access to the tent.

The strategist stood his ground as he heard the world outside of the tent spin into motion. While the fleeing thief was beyond detection, the two Plegian soldiers that had noticed their felled comrade were not nearly as silent. Robin closed his eyes and took a long calming breath, while he placed his opponents on the map he had constructed in his head. With his sword-hand still clutching tightly to the handle of his Levin Sword, the strategist moved into action.

A sharp blade of crackling lightning shredded through the side of the tent. The forks of electricity burned through the air as they sought out the Plegian soldiers who were investigating their fallen friend. The white light scorched through the metal plates and leather hide that served as armour, burning into the flesh of the lance-wielding Plegians.

While the lance-wielders may have been staggered by the surprise lightning attack, they were not beaten. The trained soldiers recovered quickly from their shock and levelled the cruel tips of their lances on the strategist. It became all the more clear that they were not beaten when the two guards launched their attacks on the white-haired man.

It was a dance of death. The long spears shot forward in a sharp attempt to pierce their target. Robin spun around in a deft dance of dodging and blocking. His Levin Sword cut through the air, clapping against the smooth wooden shaft of one lance to redirect it while the sharp tip of the other grazed against his shoulder. The fabric of his robe failed to resist the keen edge of the lance, letting it pass to leave a shallow cut on his skin.

Far from a novice when it came to battles, the grandmaster could tell when the scales were tipped against him. In melee combat, his magical sword was not the best choice against the long-reaching lances. The Levin Sword was powerful from a distance when he had the time to build up its charge and direct the attack. In this kind of close range battle where the only option was to flip back and forth between defending and attacking, it was really just another sword. The smart move would have been to gain some distance to reclaim his advantage, but with two lances bearing down on him, his options for safely disengaging were few and far between.

Desperately searching for a solution to his current predicament, the strategist’s mind flashed to the image of the sword-princess from the future. When faced with lances, he had witnessed Lucina use her impressive speed and agility to close the gap on her opponent to deliver her attacks. With the most danger being its stabbing ability, the average soldier was ill-prepared for a movement that put their opponent inside of their area of influence.

Robin took another glancing blow as he implemented his strategy. Without Lucina’s lifetime of sword-training, his attempt to close the gap was far from perfect, but it did put the strategist where he needed to be. Directly in front of the surprised Plegian, Robin brought the Levin Sword up in a quick diagonal slash. The the blade made a crackling electrical sound in its quest to rend armour and flesh. The strategist winced slightly as the sensation of warm blood splashing against his cheek.

There wasn’t time for Robin to dwell in this victory. With the other Plegian soldier still behind him, he spun quickly, bringing the bloodied edge of the Levin Sword up to deflect another lance attack. A hollow metallic sound rang through the air as the lance bounced off of the edge of the sword, barely missing the strategist.

The Plegian soldier’s face twisted into a mask of horror as the zig-zagged blade of the Levin Sword traveled down the length of the spear. Magical sparks flashed off of the edges of the blade as it charred the surface of the spear’s wooden shaft. Robin grit his teeth as he thrust his body forward, pulling the lightning blade along with him. He swung his arms forward, cutting a downward arc across the enemy soldier’s body.

A silence crept into the air as the Plegian’s body slumped backwards, falling lifelessly to the ground. The battle had been a few moments of blistering action, and as quickly as it had begun it had ended. The sudden silence of the battlefield was drowned out by the sound of Robin’s heart, pounding hard in his ears. The stillness was hard to focus on as sweat and blood stung at his eyes. The taste of his victory was lost in the harsh ragged breathing that left his throat feeling raw.

Robin’s body moved quickly to the side, driven by instinct as he nose caught a sulphurous oder in the air. His movements had been quick, but he still felt an unpleasant heat on his face as a bolt of fire shot past him, its thin tendrils of flame licking at his skin. As he rolled to a stop he flipped his head up, catching his first glimpse of the Plegian sorcerer who had attacked him.

The dark cape of the Plegian caster fluttered in the wind behind him. The eyes of the menacing animalistic helmet seemed to glow with an evil light. His lips were curled into a thin frown as his fingers danced over the pages of the crimson tome that he held in his other hand. Magical flames crawled up his fingertips from the page, curling around his digits like the tendrils of some unspeakable thing.

“Filthy Ylissean.” The dark wizard all but spat the words as his fingers kneaded the twisting flames into another deadly bolt that he could throw, “I’ll have vengeance for my fallen comrades!”

Robin twisted the Levin Sword through the air as he pushed himself back to his feet, “Yeah, I think I’ll have to disagree with that.” He let the hand holding the Levin Sword hang down in front of him as he readied it for a magical attack.

The dark sorcerer eyed the glowing lightning sword from his place. The twisting ball of flames that the sorcerer was holding crackled and spat embers, almost like a rabid dog, desperate to be loosed from its leash. His eyes traveled down the length of it before settling on the hand that held it. His lips curled into a cruel smirk as he finally took in all of the Shepard’s strategist.

“Ah. You’re the strategist.” The Plegian let out a humourless chuckle, “I thought you looked familiar. Perhaps I’ll take you alive to claim the bounty…” His face twisted into a cruel sneer as he thrust his hand forward, letting the fireball shoot forward as a twisted javelin of hellfire, “Perhaps not.”

Robin dove in a desperate dodge. When the javelin of flame struck the earth it burst into a roaring explosion of heat and flame. The twisting inferno quickly consumed the dry grass before spreading and claiming the tents around it. The heat of the flames seemed to suck all of the moisture out of the air, almost choking Robin with its dry heat. Even having dodged direct contact with the terrifying spell seemed not to have spared Robin from the danger.

The strategist felt his throat and lungs burning as his laboured breaths fed him naught but the hot dry air and the smoke of the burning tents. His body felt heavy, still suffering from the earlier fight. Robin was painfully aware of his own sapped energy, and what would happen if he was forced to struggle for too long. In a battle of attrition, the Plegian mage who was entering the battle fresh would definitely destroy him.

Another fiery orange light cut through the smoky air, exploding a few feet from where Robin’s spot of cover behind a flaming tent. The explosion of hot air caused the smoke and ash in the air to twist and turn, like phantom snakes hanging in the air. The white-haired strategist grit his teeth as he was assaulted by the fresh wave of heat against his face. Clearly the tent would only offer so much cover if his enemy didn’t care about burning down his own camp.

Robin ground the toes of his boots into the dry earth beneath him. Once again he had found himself in a tight spot. Any move he made to get a clear shot at his opponent left him open as well, and taking a direct hit from one of those fire blasts was sure to be a hard thing. His lips curled into a sour smile as he accepted that the path to conquering this obstacle, like many before, was not around, but through.

The strategist kicked off from the earth, through the burning tatters of the tent that he had been using for cover. While the burning tatters didn’t offer much physical defence, they could still cover his approach. Using the same strategy against magic that he had used to defeat lances was likely not wise. Considering he had not navigated the earlier encounter unscathed, this was probably total lunacy…but people often failed to prepare for total lunacy.

With a strong leap, Robin shot out of the side of the flaming tent, a tail of embers and bits of burning canvas lighting the path behind him. The Plegian sorcerer turned his eyes up, his face a mix of rage and surprise. The dark wizard took a half-step back in an attempt to gain some distance and thrust his fiery spell-hand forward to release another terrible ball of flame.

There was no way that the strategist would be able to dodge the smouldering ball of flame. Leaping into the air had left him with no option but forward. He whipped the glowing lightning sword around swinging through the fire-bolt that threatened to claim his life. The flames burst into fiery petals of heat and light, dancing through the air and licking at the strategist’s form. The Levin Sword crackled angrily, lines of light criss-crossing over the solid blade as pieces of it sheared off in a spray of sparkling shrapnel.

Sparking electrical light cut through the air in a beautiful arc as Robin finished his desperate slash. The glittering pieces of the shattered blade shot through the air, leaving shallow cuts on both fighters where they met skin. All that was left of the Levin Sword was a quickly fading yellow light as the crackling energy that had been locked inside dispersed into the air.

The sorcerer stumbled backwards, his hand gripping at a charred gash that ran from his shoulder to the opposite hip. He let out a raspy cough that was accompanied by a thin spray of spit and blood, “You…bastard.” The sorcerer tried to bring his hand back to the tome of fire magic, only to find it crumbling into ashes between his fingers. The corners of his lips twitched in a mix of emotions and he finally fell backwards to the ground. His lips were twisted into a wry smile, perhaps some mix of anger that his tome had failed him before he could unleash an attack, and satisfaction that it wouldn’t fall into the strategist’s hands.

Robin let out his own cough, feeling the muscles of his arm tingle from the charge of the Levin Sword breaking. The adrenaline of the fight kept him from feeling the myriad of cuts, scrapes, and burns that he had suffered. He staggered slightly to keep his footing under the weight of this hard-fought victory. It seemed that he had grasped victory over this Plegian camp. He wanted to collapse, to take a moment to rest his battle-weary body. He grit his teeth, knowing that he couldn’t do it here, not when there might be more Plegians returning at any moment.

A howl cut through the air, robbing Robin of his chance to enjoy this small victory. The strategist limped, pulling his body away from the burning campsite that betrayed his position with its large plume of smoke. A howl rarely meant anything good, and with the tents now just burning shadows of themselves, all the campsite did was betray his position.

The strategist cleared the rocks that had sat around the tent and immediately remembered the long stretch of field that he’d have to cross to get back to the cover of trees. He grit his teeth, struggling with a distance that he knew he’d never be able to cross. He turned his attention back to the open field, and then finally spotted where the howl had come from.

Perhaps they had been drawn to the smoke and fire, curious to see what was happening. Maybe they had been scouting the camp, waiting for the opportunity to sneak in and loot it. It was even possible that they had been working with the Plegians all along, and were now on their way to secure revenge. Regardless of the reason, Robin was now faced with a fast-approaching group of bandits who were howling like wolves.

Robin was battered and exhausted by battle. With the Levin Sword now nothing but a broken handle, he couldn’t really fight even if he wanted to. He closed his eyes, letting his head fall back to look up at the sky. He took in a long breath of the air, so much cooler and sweeter than it had been back at the burning camp. The strategist closed his eyes as he felt the broken handle slip from his trembling fingers and tumble towards the ground at his feet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How will the events of Robin's last stand impact the Shepards? Is this the part where I introduce a weird mary sue character to replace him with a weird dragon/vampire lineage and plot-breaking super powers? Will a grief-stricken Tharja turn to the rest of the Shepards to find comfort in the crazy NTR twist that my comments section keeps talking about? Tune in next time! Same bat-time! Same bat-channel!


	4. A Hex Called Grief

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Shepards are forced to deal with the absence of their strategist, a loss that weighs heavy on them all. This is also a bit of a long one. Remember back in "A Hex Called Love" when I wrote short chapters? That was fun, wasn't it?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I bet you thought I was going to leave you to stew in the ending of that last chapter for a couple of months, didn't you?

“There was definitely a lot of magic used here…” Ricken sighed softly as he pushed his finger through a small pile of ashes, “Maybe he stole a fire tome and burned the camp down to cover his own escape?”

“That seems like an unlikely hypothesis after we found the remains of a fire-based tome by one of the bodies.” Miriel adjusted her glasses as she looked down at the other mage.

Getting an investigation team to the ashen remains of the Plegian camp had taken longer than would have been ideal. Gaius had been slowed in his return to camp, either because of his overburdened state, or because of a powerful fear of how a certain dark mage would take the news. By the time that they had organized their investigation group and gotten them out to the site, it felt like time had stolen most of the clues.

Lucina let out a long sigh as she watched the two elemental mages sift through wreckage and ashes. With her having gotten back to camp before Chrom and Anna, it had fallen to her to take over the leadership role. As a result, it had fallen to her to organize and oversee this group. So far her leadership duties hadn’t exactly been a picnic.

Convincing Tharja that she couldn’t be part of the mission had been the largest hurdle. The shadowy witch had all but demanded that she be allowed to accompany them. The sword-maiden wasn’t sure what it was that had finally convinced Tharja to stay put. It might have been the suggestion that Robin would be grateful for the friendly face of his wife if he managed to return on his own. It could have also been from Henry’s suggestion that the witch might be able to find some magical means of finding her lost husband. In either case, while the investigation was proceeding more smoothly without her, it didn’t appear to be heading in any particular direction.

After weighing all of the options, the members of the investigation team had been decided. The party consisted of herself, Yarne, Gaius, as well as the magicians, Ricken and Miriel. It had been difficult with so many of the group split off for the previous mission, but Lucina had done her best. If she was being honest, she was aware that the team was lacking, and was desperate to take solace in the knowledge that she had done her best in a bad situation.

Ricken and Miriel had been chosen for their wide knowledge of magic. Henry might have been a better option with his history with the Plegians, but was also the most qualified to keep an eye on his fellow practitioner of dark arts back at camp. It wasn’t optimal. It was a compromise that she had made to keep everyone back at the camp safe from the potential danger of the wild emotions of a grieving sorceress.

Yarne had been selected for his Taguel talents and his experience tracking. There had been some debate that Panne would have been the better choice. She had spent her entire life learning to track, and honing her sense just to stay alive. Those skills were also the skills that made her better at gathering the food that the Shepards desperately needed to keep going, so Lucina had left her on her mission. The sword-maiden was trying not to dwell on the possibility that her decision had been influenced by her feeling more comfortable with her companion from the future.

Gaius had been the easiest decision for members of the party. He was the only one who had witnessed anything that had happened, so everything he remembered would be useful. It was also impossible for Lucina to leave him behind and still feel at ease with her conscience. His concern that Tharja might vent her emotions on the messenger were obvious. There was also the possibility that the dark witch might use him for some strange ritual to help her locate her lost love. There was no telling what that might do to the red-headed thief. Including him had been as much for his own safety as it had been for the benefits he could offer.

She had wanted to bring a healer along in the event that they found Robin and he was in need of medical attention. Unfortunately her leaving put Lissa in charge of what was left of the camp, so she couldn’t come. Maribelle had been the next best option, but with the history between her and Gaius, it seemed better to avoid unnecessary drama. Libra would have been the perfect choice, but as part of their resource gathering mission, he had been sent to gather information from the small villages. Apparently people who weren’t willing to trust a soldier were more willing to trust a warrior monk.

In the end they had decided that the best solution was to stock up on vulneraries. There was no arguing that their camp had been overstocked with them thanks to Robin’s careful planning. Without a healer, perhaps having an overstock of healing items could prove to be a boon after all.

Once they had all gotten to the scene, it had become clear that things weren’t going to be as easy as they had hoped. The Plegian camp was a charred wreck. Sorting out what had happened there was proving to be difficult. Also the smoke that had filled the air had done a brilliant job of choking out the other scents. Yarne had put in a good effort, but it was unrealistic to expect his taguel senses to cut through the strong stench of soot and ash.

What they knew so far was that there had been a fight in the camp. Three lives had been lost in the exchange and the camp had been reduced to its current state. At some point a large group of people had moved through the field, and then they had headed left. Their tracks vanished when they got back to the hard packed earth of the road, so following them by tracks alone would be difficult The only solid clue that they had found had been the broken handle of a Levin sword.

It had been the thief that had found the remains of the broken weapon. With his thief nature, Gaius had always been talented at picking up valuable trinkets, and spotting shiny things. The theories had been that perhaps the weapon had broken in the battle and Robin had discarded it as he had made his escape. Beyond that, it wasn’t clear what had happened, but given the many footprints, the dark possibility that they wouldn’t find the missing strategist was strong in everyone’s mind.

Lucina brought her hand up, pressing the bridge of her nose between her thumb and forefinger. There wasn’t really anything else that they could do here. At this point it felt more like they were playing in the dirt than actually looking for their lost friend. The best option was to return, and Lucina wasn’t looking forward to the conversations that waited her when she got back to camp.

oOoOo

It was interesting how little magic it took to transform something like a wooden chair into a shower of splinters. How simple it was to manipulate eldritch forces and twist things, leaving nothing but destruction behind. With enough training and magical potential, all it would take was the wave of a hand, and you could bring an army to its knees. Comparatively, the ability to rend furniture in a fit of rage was almost underwhelming.

It had also done very little to improve Tharja’s mood.

The witch glared at the space that had once been a chair, her eyes reflecting a powerful manic rage. The chair had done nothing in particular to earn the dark sorceress’s ire. Truly she was more angry with herself than she ever could have been at the inanimate object that moments before had exploded into a shower of useless and broken pieces.

She had lost him.

That had been the spark. lighting the fuse to the powder-keg of her emotions. To have finally broken through every barrier that kept her from making him hers, only for this to happen. It was fate taking its licks at her. The forces of karma had looked down on her long history of dark deeds and enacted a cruel justice upon her. She had achieved her happiness, and after a moment of weakness where she had dared to doubt it, it had been snatched away from her.

Fate had told her this would happen. She had heard the dark whispers deep in her soul telling her that she was unworthy every time she saw a sign. All of these children coming back from the future, but nothing for her…deep down she had known what that really meant. In her own vanity she had lied, saying she was concerned that her lover would leave her for another. No. She had always known the truth. She was a cursed splotch of darkness. A dark omen, who’s destiny was to bring despair to all those around her.

Tharja curled her shaking fingers into her palm before slamming her tight fist against the top of the cluttered desk. It had been two days since the investigation party had returned from its outing. When she had heard word of their return she had left her tent like a shot, clinging to the desperate hope that she’d be able to return to the safety and warmth of her lover’s arms. Deep down she had known better.

After hearing the report she had holed herself up in the tent that she had shared with Robin. His desk was now buried under unfurled scrolls, magic circles, and ingredients and reagents. She had hurriedly flipped through every obscure tome she could find, desperately searching for anything that she could use to locate the lost strategist.

The dark woman felt her fingertips clutch at one of the scrolls, crumpling its thin material under her grasp. It was hopeless. With the foresight to have planned for this, perhaps she could have set up something to track him. She had been unable to convince him of the merits of such a spell, and any time she had attempted to cast one on him in secret he had managed to brush it off like dust on his shoulder. If only he had listened to her when she had tried to tell him how crucial it could be!

No, that wasn’t right. Tharja bit her lip hard, the coppery taste of blood hitting her tongue. It wasn’t Robin’s fault that she was left her without a signal to find him. Her intentions when she had tried to mark him with a locating spell had not exactly been what you would call _pure_. She had wanted to be able to find him at any time, because even after her total victory, she hadn’t been able to accept it.

Doubt was the terrifying dragon that lived in Tharja’s heart. Even after achieving what should have been unquestionable victory, beast known as doubt couldn’t be defeated. He had said he loved her, had taken part in passionate carnal activities with her, he had even gone so far as to marry her. It was the beautiful happy life that she had fought so hard for. All of her tooth and claw struggles had been rewarded with the things she longed for.

And then doubt had opened its toothy maw to whisper in her ear, ‘What if he doesn’t mean it?’

It had been the one icy thorn that lingered in her heart. It was the worry that haunted her nightmares, and woke her in a cold sweat. It was a lingering weed in her utopia that she hadn’t managed to pluck. Worse still, the more she tried to stamp it out, the deeper it had managed to wriggle.

She had fought so hard, clearly she had earned this slice of happiness and won Robin’s affection with her perseverance.

‘What if the constant stalking in the shadows was just annoying? What if he’s just humouring you now so that you’ll stop?’ Doubt gripped her heart with its icy claws.

Robin had said that he loved her. He had said that he loved her and only her.

The darker whispers chuckled into her ear, ’Men often say things in the heat of the moment, especially when enjoying the pleasures of a woman’s body. With so many people in the Shepards pairing up, he was running out of options to deal with his lust.’

The two of them had gotten married and promised to live happily together for the rest of their lives.

‘How much can it really mean to him when the ring he wears to symbolize his promise is such a cheap thing?’ Tharja’s darker voice taunted her, ‘Of course, no one wastes money on something if they plan to throw it away.’

No. It did mean something! They were going to defeat the darkness together and be a happy family.

‘Is that so? What does this _family_ look like?’ The dark swirling pit of doubt almost seemed to grin as it countered, ‘With all of these children that have come back from the future, doesn’t it seem odd that you don’t have one?’

The debate had been raging in Tharja’s head for too long. Every time something seemed good, that seed of doubt in her heart would twist it. Every time Robin said or did something to prove his love, the dark whispers in her mind would perform a cruel math to make her question it. Now she stood, in her tent, an empty feeling clawing at her chest. She was helpless to do anything because her doubt had robbed her of the tools she so desperately needed.

Tharja slowly looked up to the full-length mirror that stood across the tent from her. The shadowy form reflected back at her seemed to take a life of its own, as if the mirror reflected the darkness inside of her instead of her physical form. The witch narrowed her eyes, glaring at the twisted reflection that looked back at her.

‘Maybe you could have protected him if you’d been there. I guess now we’ll never know for sure.’ The voices whispered in the back of her mind, ‘At least black is your colour. You’ll be the perfect picture of a beautiful grieving widow.’

With a twitch of her finger, the mirror snapped. A spider-web of cracks cut through the mirror’s broken surface. The witch pressed both of her palms flat against the crumpled pages that were sprawled over the desk before her. She used what little strength she had left to hold her body up as she glared down at the scrolls and tomes that held no answers.

With tears stinging her eyes, Tharja collapsed forward into the desk. The search party hadn’t been able to find Robin. Even the forces of magic that she had spent so long mastering had proven useless in Tharja’s quest for answers. There was nothing they could do but cling to hope and press on. They just didn’t have a way of finding their lost strategist.

Tharja sobbed as the darkness inside her left her with one last taunting whisper…

‘It’s all your fault.’

oOoOo

The atmosphere inside of the strategy tent was tense. It had been tense for days now. A heavy feeling hung in the air as people debated what they should do next. The choking feeling had seemed heavier inside the tent where the Shepards usually formed their battle-plans. It had gotten to the point that anyone with a weaker constitution had just started avoiding the tent altogether.

Chrom couldn’t bring himself to walk out of the tent.

The noble Ylissean king blamed himself for what had happened. He should have argued for bigger groups, or just fought against the plan to split into groups altogether. He should have insisted that Robin be deployed to his team, maybe then he could have done something. Instead he was faced with a landslide of decisions on how to proceed, weighing looking for Robin against the other needs of their army.

The first challenge was the question of whether to move the camp. If Robin had just been delayed by something, moving the camp would mean that Robin wouldn’t know where to find them. On the other hand, staying where they were meant that it was that much easier for anyone else who was looking for them to find them. If he put the sentimentality of wanting his friend out of his mind, the decision was easy, but he couldn’t bring himself to do it.

The proud king let his lips curl into a wry smile, “Robin would have made the decision by now.”

It was the phrase that had crossed Chrom’s lips countless times since he had returned to the camp. Every decision that came up felt like a thing that Robin would have answered instantly, before moving onto the next problem. While all of the Shepards were desperately trying to pick up the slack of their missing strategist, the burden still weighed heavy on Chrom’s powerful shoulders. The warrior king hadn’t realized how much he was leaning on his friend until he was no longer there.

It felt like there were a mountain of decisions to make, and every time Chrom tried to do what he thought was best for the Shepards. Every time it came time to decide on what order to give, he asked himself what Robin would do. Most of the time, doing what he thought Robin would do had been easy, but now that it was time to move their camp, the Ylissean king was struggling.

They had to move. That much was obvious. A fighting force that had stopped moving was just becoming dull and wasting resources. Robin would have chastised Chrom for wasting so much of their time and resources as it was. The question wasn’t whether or not they should move, but rather, where they were supposed to go next.

The flap of the tent opened, splitting the relative darkness inside with the harsh light of day. Chrom winced slightly as the light attacked his eyes. He felt like he had started to lose track of time, spending all of his hours trying to make decisions inside of the tent. The only people who ever came by now did so to make reports, or ask for answers. The knight-king gave a beckoning wave and looked back to the map.

Libra crossed the entrance of the tent, coming to a stop on the other side of the map-table, “Sir.”

Chrom kept his focus on the table. Libra had been organizing trading with the nearby villages, getting them supplies that they would need. The villages had been short on supplies before Robin had gone missing, so Chrom had become used to Libra’s reports reflecting that. It was just another reason that their forces needed to move on. Villagers couldn’t eat gold, and if the Shepards started trying to buy into their stores, people were going to starve come winter.

“Report.” Chrom reluctantly spoke, dreading another report that would really just be a plea for them to move on.

Libra nodded softly, “The villagers are thankful for chasing off all of the local bandits, but they cannot afford to-“

“They can’t give us any more food.” Chrom finished the part of the report that he knew was coming. “I know. We need to move on.” He took in a long breath, “I just don’t know where we’re going.”

The androgynous warrior monk gave his leader a weak smile, “Ah…yes.” He then took another step forward, “On that front, there was a rumour floating around one of the villages we stopped at.”

Chrom looked up at the other man, his tired face relaxing a little with the hope that the other man could have an answer to his problem, “What kind of rumour?”

Libra brought his hand up, to the map table, taking a hold of one of the wooden markers, “We met with a traveling merchant in one of the towns who had been digging around some ruins in search of treasure.” The monk started as he placed his wooden marker down on an illustration of some ruins on the map, “He said something about the place feeling haunted.”

“Could be Risen.” Chrom muttered as he stared at the marker that sat north of Port Ferox.

“It could be.” Libra started, “More interesting than that however, is that the merchant mentioned that while he was exploring the ruins he did notice another person who didn’t answer his call.”

Chrom furrowed his brow before looking up from the map. People digging through ruins was hardly exciting news. Their own forces had been known to search for treasure within ruins every once in a while. Every once in a while you’d meet another explorer, and often as not the people who engaged in that kind of activity weren’t the best conversationalists. None of what Libra had said seemed unusual, so why did he think it was so interesting?

The monk kept his soft smile on his face as he lifted his fingers from the wooden piece, “He only mentioned it to us, because the other explorer was wearing a long black hooded coat with golden detailing.” Libra nodded softly and closed his eyes, “He only remembered seeing the explorer when we described Robin.”

oOoOo

Dark clouds hung low in the sky, as if threatening to escape their heavenly tethers and come tumbling down to the earth. The crumbling walls of the ruins spoke of a grand sacred design. If what had once stood here had been meant to push back against the darkness, it felt like that time had passed. With the thick sheet of darkness pressing down and choking out the sun, the time that this place was grand seemed a long forgotten memory.

It was immediately clear why someone of a superstitious nature might think the place was haunted. Every stone seemed steeped in forgotten history and half-remembered legend. The air felt charged with magical energy, as if the walls themselves were waiting for a chance to fulfil their secret purpose.

The Shepards had split into two hastily chosen groups after they had made their march to be closer to the ruins. One of the groups had stayed at the campsite setting everything up to support them for however long they might have to stay here. The rest of the group had formed the exploration party that was now preparing to take the ruins.

Chrom was outlining a plan to send out scouts to see what they were in for. From what the traveling merchant had told them, navigating inside of the ruins would be tricky for a large force. The ruins seemed to be a large collection of pitfalls into levels below and walls that would serve as a funnel to slow down the movements of a large group. If they all charged in and it proved to be some sort of trap, getting back out would be a hassle.

Tharja had stood at the edge of the group while Chrom deployed a Pegasus Knight to get a look at things from higher up. She chewed her bottom lip, her heart a twisting maelstrom of emotions. The news of their mission had given her a spark of hope as if trying to give her a light to guide her through the darkness of despair. The witch wanted more than anything just live in that last spark for a moment. Unfortunately, in her experience, hope was poison, and that spark, a will-o’-the-wisp that would vanish as she reached out to touch it.

It was easy to understand why Chrom was being so careful. While sending the whole army in was dangerous for the terrain reasons, sending in small groups could also prove dangerous. They’d make easy targets if they were all split up, and given that this mission was mostly about finding a lost teammate, it seemed foley to risk more casualties. The Ylissean king was just being cautious.

Tharja narrowed her eyes slightly. She didn’t have time for all of this caution. Even if this part of hope was a phantom light trying to lead her to her doom, the choice was simple. The rest of the Shepards were blindly battling the invincible opponent known as fate. Every step in their story had been seeing a faint glimmer of imaginary hope and then following it to wherever it might lead. The witch turned on her heels and started her slow march towards the ruins.

If they waited for Chrom to formulate some sort of plan, the ruins would crumble away to dust before they ever moved. It may have been wise to be cautious, but recent events had painted a clear picture that without Robin guiding them, the Shepards were slow to make a move. If Robin was really waiting to be saved, then planning their escape from the ruins could fall to him.

It appeared that no one had taken notice of the witch’s choice to slip away. Perhaps even if they had noticed, the recent volatility of her mood had kept them from trying to stop her. She imagined that when the lack of her presence was finally felt, the rest of the Shepards would make their charge to follow her. When they caught up someone would likely chastise her for making such a dangerous choice. By then it wouldn’t matter anymore.

‘What if you get hurt?’

Tharja narrowed her eyes at the audacity that such a thought might still linger inside of her somewhere. Even before the cold wind around this temple had made its effort to deaden nerves, Tharja had felt numb for some time now. The struggle to keep the tumult of her emotions in check took too much of her focus to feel anything as simple as physical pain.

‘What if you die?’

What a simple fear for simple people. As a master of the dark arts, anything that was capable of truly killing her would hardly hide away in some dingy old ruins. Even the bandit that Robin had saved her from hadn’t really been a threat to her life as long as she was prepared to use all of her skills to survive. In her experience the only real threats had to be above earthly weaknesses, like the gods, or this fell dragon that all of the future children were so scared of.

Without Robin, she wasn’t sure she cared if she lived or died anyway. She had spent so much time fighting for her future with him that she couldn’t remember what a future without him looked like anymore.

‘What if he isn’t there? What if this is all for nothing?’

The witch flipped open her dark tome as she crossed under the arch of stones that served as the threshold to the ruins. If Robin wasn’t there, then all the more reason to deal with these ruins quickly so that they could move on to the next thing. Knowing that something would hurt, Tharja preferred to move quickly and get it over with rather than linger with the dull throb for longer than was necessary.

The dark whispers in Tharja’s mind faded back, melting away under the pressure of her cold focus. It was a feeling that the witch still remembered from her time with the Plegians. With nothing left to lose, the voices of fear and doubt lacked the power to threaten her into inaction. With her singular purpose, there was nothing that her shadow could say that would turn her away or slow her down in her mission.

Tharja stopped just inside of the vestibule of the ruins. She took in a long breath of air tasting the dust of time and the lingering magic that hung in the air. Her dark eyes flashed over the crumbling walls, some cracked by time, others covered by vines that had climbed them in a vain hope of finding sunlight. She moved her focus from one shadow to the next, watching for threats as she searched for signs of life.

A low groaning noise hung in the air around the witch. Perhaps it was the sound of the wind dancing down the halls, forcing a sound from the dead throat of this dilapidated fortress. Such things were not exactly uncommon in ruins such as this. Tharja knew that for frightened children and superstitious fools, something as simple as the howling wind could become an unseen terror. She had no fear of ghosts, and found power in the knowledge that any real threat that could groan also had a throat that she could slit.

The sound of Tharja’s heels clicking against the cold stone floor as she marched further into ruins. Her fingers danced across the page of her open tome, the dark magic glowing with a cold purple light that cast twisted dancing shadows on the walls. Her cold eyes scanned the path before her as she walked, checking for places where a lesser fighter might chose to launch an ambush.

Tharja stopped suddenly as the glow from the swirling miasma of her spell revealed a silhouette further down the hall. The witch narrowed her eyes as she brought her hand up, watching the unidentified form slowly turn to face her. It took slow steps towards her, the scuff of boots against stone echoing through the silence between the two of them.

Empty eyes that held nothing but a faint red glow looked back at Tharja. The light of the spell revealed the red Plegian armour and the pale clammy skin of the slowly shifting warrior. Its lips split, letting out the low crackling groan of the grave. Its fingers were curled tightly around an chipped and broken sword that seemed to have been given new life by the same dark aura that surrounded the rest of the warrior.

The witch clucked her tongue as she looked at the warrior, “I guess there were Risen here after all.” She raised her hand, holding her arm out towards the monstrous undead creature, “You’re in my way.”

Slithering tendrils of darkness shot out from Tharja’s outstretched hand. The snake-like shadows cut through the air, extensions of the witch’s fingertips. When the dark spell hit the Risen warrior, it tore through everything in its path, rending armour and flesh in its journey beyond. The warrior shuddered, its mouth forming a soundless cry as the crimson light in its eyes faded away. With the magic that moved it broken, the Risen warrior crumbled away into dust and ash.

Dusting herself off, the witch continued her descent into the ruins. She had a mission to complete, and a few dead men certainly weren’t going to stop her. The click of her heels against the stones beneath her would ring out as a warning to anything that got in her way. There was no time for playing around.

As she rounded a corner, Tharja’s eyes flashed up to catch a glimpse of a fluttering shadow crossing her path at an intersection further down the hall. The witch felt a tightness in her chest as the small glimmer of hope inside of her painted the silhouette as something familiar. Without really thinking about it her feet had begun to carry her faster. Before she was even aware of it, she had broken into a run down the halls, desperately trying to follow the fluttering shadow.

Out of breath, Tharja came to a sudden stop as the hallway opened up into a large room. The crumbling ceiling served as a window into the sky. At some point in her journey the clouds had grown tired of their burden and begun to weep a cold rain onto the broken ruins. Tharja could see her breath fogging in front of her face as she took her few last shaky steps out of the shelter of the hallway and into the open room.

The owner of the shadow that she had been chasing was standing further in the room. A long, dark coat hung down, hiding most of their form, a deep hood pulled up to offer some shelter from the chilling rain that was falling. Gold detailing ran along the bottom of the coat in large triangles like dragon’s teeth. A sword was strapped to the figure’s hip, its outline visible through the wet material of the coat.

Tharja felt her heart stop in her chest as she stared forward at the figure before her. Her hand came up, as if in an attempt to reach out across the distance of the large room. Her mind didn’t register the cold sting of the rain against her skin as she pressed forward under the gaping maw in the ceiling of the room. Her lips trembled as fear that saying anything might shatter the moment into the fading smoke of a dream. She didn’t dare do anything that might stop this from being real.

Crackling electrical light split the room, scorching the stone surface at Tharja’s feet. Had she not been so entirely focused on the form before her, it likely would have struck true. The moment that the attack had started, she had seen it and had moved more on instinct than out of any knowing attempt to dodge.

The witch narrowed her eyes dangerously, looking up the form before her once more. She brought her curled fingers to her face, catching the edge of her thumbnail between her teeth. Clearly this wasn’t Robin. How could she have been so blind? Perhaps it was his coat, but, she felt foolish at the thought that she could have ever confused the person wearing the coat for her lost love.

Long shadows cast a veil over the figure’s face, hiding their true identity. As her eyes focused on the details it became more and more clear that this was not Robin. This person was shorter than Robin. Their shoulders were too slight. The waist was a bit too slender, and the hips a bit too wide in comparison. From the front all of the differences would be as plain as day to anyone. With all of the time Tharja had spent staring at Robin’s back, she should have known just as quickly.

How could she have ever thought that this stranger was Robin?

Another bolt of crackling lightning shot out from the imposter’s fingertips. Tharja slipped to the side, using her cape to shield her from most of the burning magical energy. Under the cover of her cape, she re-opened her tome, drawing the dark energies bound within it into a ball in her hand. She felt a dark growl in her throat as she prepared her counterattack.

This caster had the gall to pretend to be her Robin? They dared to pretend, when they were so clearly just a pale imitation? Was this some sort of cruel trick, meant to fan the embers of hope into a bright flame that would blind her to the danger? Had someone meant to do her harm by exploiting this emotional weakness? If that was the case it had not worked. The result had, in fact, be the inverse of weakening her resolve. The embers of hope had transformed themselves into a fiery rage.

A bolt of burning black fire left Tharja’s palm when she thrust her hand forward for an attack. The rain sizzled as it retreated from the burning dark orb as it shot across the room. The imposter had made a last ditch effort to dodge, and barely escaped direct contact with the swirling mass of black flames. When they touched the stone of the ruins they exploded into a hot cloud of dust that struggled against the pounding rain to stay in the air. The small body of the imposter went tumbling across the ground, coming to a stop in a corner of the room.

Tharja slowly walked forward, her cape fluttering behind her as she made her way across the open room. Her dark eyes glowed like burning coals as she looked down at the coughing imposter. Her fingers crackled with more of the dark black energy as she came to a stop over the battered caster.

“Give me your coat.” Tharja wouldn’t let this second-rate caster continue to pretend to be Robin.

The caster rolled back, clutching the coat tight across their chest as they attempted to make an escape, “S-Stay a-a-away!”

Tharja felt her eyebrow twitch with frustration, “Give me your coat and I’ll let you go.” She rolled her shoulder back keeping an attack ready.

The young caster shivered but tried to appear strong by meeting Tharja’s glare, “If my father was here-!”

The witch snapped her wrist, the twisting forces of her magic lifting the fallen caste up and into her grasp. Her eyes smouldered with a dark rage. The only thing that was holding her back was the fact that she knew Robin wouldn’t have appreciated her murdering this small child. She wanted to stop anyone from trying to smear Robin’s name. More than that, she wanted the coat. It would be something to hold onto, to feel Robin’s presence around her.

Tharja’s shoulders shook as she stared into the frightened face of the young caster, “Give me Robin’s coat.”

The young girl in Tharja’s gasp stuttered softly as she looked into the rage-filled face of the terrifying sorceress, “H-How do you know my father?”

Tharja felt her blood turn to ice-water. The young caster slipped from the witch’s grasp, quickly stepping back against the wall behind her. Tharja quickly ran calculations in her head. She let her hand fall down to her side, her long cape rolling forward over her shoulder to cloak her in shadows. Her strength felt sapped, like her cape was suddenly too heavy under the weight of the cold rain.

“You…” Tharja felt the whisper leave her lips as her dark eyes scanned under the edge of her bangs, “You’re Robin’s daughter?”

The young caster swallowed hard, seeming to weight the consequences of confirming the truth against those of lying. She slowly nodded her head, rivulets of water running down the contours of her face. Her body still shook from a combination of the cold rain and a fear of the powerful magician before her.

Tharja slowly brought one hand up, grasping her forearm tight enough that her fingernails threatened to pierce her mage-cloth and bite into her skin, “And…you don’t know who I am?”

This time the young caster was faster to respond. She quickly shook her head back and forth, while slowly letting her body sink down the stone wall behind her, “I don’t…”

The witch let her head fall back, looking up into the cold, uncaring storm-clouds above. She felt the bitter rain bite into her skin, closing her eyes to acknowledge the sad symmetry of her physical pain mirroring the emotional stab in her heart. She took in a long breath before letting out a dry chuckle at the cruelty of fate.

She had found Robin’s child from the future. She had spent so much time worrying about it, and now she had finally come face to face with the progeny of the man she loved. In the dark and twisted future that they were all fighting to avoid, Robin had at least survived long enough to have a child. She had been hoping for this…and now for the final twist the child didn’t know her.

The explanation seemed simple. It was all so plainly obvious. While this was Robin’s child, it wasn’t hers. She had struggled for so long trying to figure out how this time-travel would work. When she plugged this new information into the equation, at best it meant that Robin was still alive but would leave her. At worst it meant they were in two different time-lines and she might have been the difference that resulted in Robin’s death.

Tharja’s eyes flashed open at the hard flapping sound of wings cutting through the sound of the rain. Her cold, emotionless eyes looked over to the white Pegasus of Sumia, the blue-haired Ylissean king jumping off from his passenger position. So the Shepards had caught up to her finally? They had certainly taken their time.

“What’s going on here, Tharja?” The warrior-king barked the question as he stomped across the growing puddles on the floor.

Tharja felt her lips curl into a wry smile as he straightened her form and looked over to the knight, “Isn’t it obvious?” The corners of her lips twitched as she struggled to hide her true emotions behind the empty smile, “I was recruiting Robin’s child to the Shepards.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh snap!
> 
> Will this recent move be the solution to the Shepard's resource woes? Just who is Morgan's mom? Will Tharja's research into the future children give her the ability to go back in time and save Robin? As Tharja is known to ask; Do you like darkness? Tune in next time! Same bat-time! Same bat-channel!


	5. A Hex Called Revenge

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With all leads about Robin dried up, the Shepards are forced to accept some horrible truths. Can they find the strength to move on for the sake of their mission to keep calamity from befalling the world.

The tension inside the strategy tent was so thick that it could stop a dagger. Most of the Shepards had gathered in the tent for the most recent strategy discussion. The debate of what the next step for the Shepards would be had come to a bit of a head. It seemed that every decision was a grinding ordeal now that they were short the grandmaster. This latest discussion had ended up being a little bit harder though.

“We can’t spend any more time looking for him.” Lucina spoke the words with the stoic voice of someone who was far too familiar with this kind of loss.

The blue-haired heiress didn’t propose this course of action lightly. The future that she had come back from had been filled with the violent ends of those that she loved. She’d become a master of the cruel mathematics of pushing down her sorrow so she could be present for those that were still alive. If they stalled out here, there was no way that they’d avoid that future. If it meant stopping that dark future from taking place, she was willing to be the one to say the uncomfortable truth. She was willing to take on the weight of this terrible decision.

The dark witch spoke from her shadowy corner of the tent, “Of course you future people would say that.”

Lucina furrowed her brows before looking over to the dark shadows of the corner, “Excuse me?”

“Of course you want to abandon the search.” Tharja’s dark eyes flashed with a furious emotion that did not carry in the calmness of her voice, “Your time was dark and scary and to save yourselves you ran away. It seems like abandoning things when they get hard is your go-to strategy.”

The heiress felt a swell of rage in her heart, “What did you just say!?” Her hand shot to the sword at her hip as she turned towards the witch, “You don’t know what I’ve seen. My time was filled with nothing but bitterness and death!”

Tharja narrowed her eyes dangerously towards the young swords-woman from the future. The threat of Lucina’s hand on her sword might have caused some to shrink in fear, for Tharja it had the opposite effect. A brutal battle seemed like the sort of thing that might grant her a brief release from the swirling pain inside of her. It wasn’t like Lucina wasn’t asking for it with suggestions like leaving Robin behind. Robin wouldn’t have stood for that kind of violence, and pursuing it wouldn’t help them find the missing grandmaster.

Slowly, the witch slowly unfurled her tight fists, “That’s exactly my point.” She let out a long sigh before closing her eyes, “Where you come from we’re all already dead. Those of us that don’t have have future children must just look like walking corpses to you.”

Lucina felt her mouth go dry at the witch’s words, “I…” She had no words. How could she respond to such a thing?

If it had just been a challenge to her honour she would have said something. If the witch had just suggested that she didn’t care because Robin wasn’t part of her direct family, she could have responded to that. Instead the witch had invoked the terrible horrors of the future. She had seen the gruesome calculations that Lucina was prepared to make to avoid that darkness, and taken the next step with a cold and emotionless logic.

“When it comes to your mission to stop the future, you don’t need to get too excited about Robin being missing. In your time he’s already failed to stop the disaster.” Tharja took in a long breath, “You just-”

“Enough!” Chrom pounded his palms against the table that he had been leaning over. It seemed to take all of the Ylissean king’s strength to hold his weary body up. His head hung from his shoulders as his eyes looked over the maps and wooden markers that littered the table before him. The weight of shouldering all of these choices without Robin had taken its tole on him, but he knew that in the end the decision would fall to him. He had to bear the burden of choosing what was best for everyone.

The hard truth of it was that Chrom already knew what he had to decide, “Lucina’s right.” The words turned bitter on his tongue, but he knew he needed to speak them, “We need to move forward.”

Tharja took a step out of the shadows, her body visibly shaking as she looked towards the leader of the Shepards, “How…How can you just-?”

“Robin would want us to keep moving.” Chrom didn’t look up from the maps. His eyes had begun to scan them, already looking for the next destination for their army.

“Robin would want us to save him!” Tharja cried out as she crossed the distance between the warrior-king and herself with angry stomps, “I thought you said he was your friend!”

Chrom turned his tired eyes to the grieving woman beside him, “Tharja…” He slowly pushed himself up to his full height, turning to look at the dark sorceress, “He’s gone.”

A harsh slap cut through the air. The witch had moved with an inhuman speed that would have put the deadliest of assassins to shame. It had been a movement fuelled by the twisting despair, and initiated by instinct. Her fingers connected with the cheek of the Ylissean king, her palm stinging from the force of its impact against his chiseled jaw. For all of its speed, Tharja’s slip still lacked the power to turn the warrior’s face.

In response to the slap, Lucina had drawn her sword, and Frederick had begun to cross the room. Both of them halted when signalled to stop by Chrom’s raised hand. He knew how much this had to hurt Tharja. A slap was understandable. She didn’t need to be locked up, she just needed time to grieve, time to accept the hard truth that the rest of the Shepards had been wrestling with. As much as accepting that Robin was gone hurt Chrom, he knew it hurt Tharja more.

Tharja’s body was still shaking from a mix of emotions and the exertion of her sudden slap. Her lips moved, her throat labouring to push out a whisper, “Take it back.”

“Tharja-” Chrom started.

“Take it back!” Tharja’s open palm curled into a tight fist, “Robin is not _gone_!”

The Ylissean king looked down at the Plegian sorceress, “I don’t want to accept it either.”

Tharja grit her teeth, her face twisting in a scowl, “He can’t be…” She choked on last word and pointed a sharp fingertip out of the tent, “What about that future child? How can Robin be…How can he be _gone_ when we have his future child?”

“We can’t be sure if that person is telling the truth.” Miriel spoke up from her spot at the table, “That could be an elaborate Plegian trap, meant to keep us stuck here.”

Ricken spoke up as well, “Even if it is true, we don’t know that her being here actually means anything about Robin’s current state.” He furrowed his brows and crossed his arms over his chest, “The fact that the future children are here at all kind of proves that.” He let out a sigh, “This time-travel stuff is a lot, but I’m pretty sure that once they came back their pasts stopped changing…at least for them.”

Miriel nodded, adjusting her glasses, “If the things we do now changed the past for them, if their mission is successful, they’ll no longer have a reason to travel back. That would create quite the paradox.”

The Plegian sorceress let her shoulders go slack. Her bottom lip trembled as she listened to the two magic users talk about their theories of time travel. Of course she had thought about everything that they were saying. Their logic had been what she had used to justify why they had never met a product of her union with the strategist. Maybe she was a different factor, and she had never married Robin in Lucina’s past. It was also the seed to the darkness that whispered in her head, telling her that she really was the difference, and that difference was what had claimed Robin.

Horrifying questions and what-ifs about the possible truths of this time-travel had haunted Tharja’s thoughts since before Robin had vanished. She had let the existence of Robin’s future child push away those thoughts for a moment. Taking a moment and ignoring all of the paradoxes had been the one balm that the dark witch had been able to find in this horrid situation. Once they were made real again, that balm turned to ashes in her fingers.

“No.” Tharja felt the bitter sting of tears welling up in her eyes, “They never found a body.”

Miriel frowned, casting her gaze down to the map, “Some spells wouldn’t have left much for us to find.” She adjusted her glasses again as she looked down at the map, “It’s also possible that any surviving Plegians took the body in the hopes that the dark magic that created the Risen might be used to reanimate him as their pawn.”

Ricken shuddered and rubbed his hands over his arms, “That’s a terrifying nightmare scenario that I hadn’t considered.”

Tharja bit her bottom lip. She knew that there could be truth in what they were saying. While the lack of a body could suggest that Robin was still alive, other options also existed. Plegia might have taken the body for some sort of magical experimentation. It was also undeniable that with how much of a thorn they had been in Plegia’s side that the other nation had put bounties on them. Alone and unarmed, it was entirely possible that he had been killed by people with designs of turning his corpse into a payday. It didn’t even need to be a story of Plegia and their sinister magic. It could be that they wanted more mundane, like stringing up the lifeless shell of the strategist as some sort of grim trophy.

Her desperate attempts to balance the scales in her mind had been found wanting. None of the faint glimmering strands of hope had been enough to sway the rest of the Shepards to continue the search. Even if he was _gone_ it was a hard pill to swallow that Tharja wouldn’t even be granted something to bury. The possibility that they’d see his mangled corpse hanging as a decoration on Plegian battlements was too grim to imagine. The thought that they’d be forced to fight some monstrous version of their friend, reanimated by Plegian magic, was too cruel to even be labeled a nightmare.

The Plegian witch felt her stomach turn as the grim reality began to take hold. It had been easy to come up with all of the reasons that Robin had to still be alive when she had been alone in her tent. It had been easy to know that he was still out there waiting to be rescued when the only one she had to convince was herself. It was only once someone challenged her thinking that she saw how flimsy the walls of her hope really were. She had started with hopes of a rescue mission. Those hopes had turned to hopes that she could at least recover his body. Now part of her wondered if it would be more of a mercy that he had been hit by a high level spell and there really was nothing to find.

Tharja turned on her heel, making a stumbling dash past the flap of the tent. She fell forward onto her hands and knees as she made her exit, heaving and retching the contents of her stomach into the grass around the tent. She felt her stomach turn, the bitter taste of bile and her own sick lingering on her tongue. Her arms shook under the labour of holding her up, their strength sapped by a combination of her despair, and multiple nights without sleep.

None of the Shepards followed her out of the tent to comfort her. Tharja had never been shy about not being interested in sharing feelings with them. Even if she had ever expressed an interest, it was clear that she wouldn’t have found comfort in anything they had to say at this point. What could you say to someone in Tharja’s situation? How could you make a situation that terrible more manageable?

Tharja forced herself back to her feet, bringing up her arm so that she could wipe her mouth with the back of her hand. There was an emptiness inside of her that stemmed from more than leaving the contents of her stomach in the grass. The fates had taken the one thing that made her feel whole, and now the search that could give her closure was also being taken from her. Her tired body was too heavy now that the last dregs of the desperate hope had been fuelling her had been stripped away.

‘You’re cursed. You aren’t meant to be happy. That’s why he’s dead. It’s all your fault.’

The Plegian witch grit her teeth, steading herself on shaky knees. That wasn’t true, at least not entirely. Maybe she was cursed. Maybe she wasn’t meant to be happy. Maybe somehow, all of this had been fate punishing her for the vanity of believing that she deserved to be loved. Maybe at its core, it was her fault that Robin was no longer with her. Even if all of that was true, it wasn’t just her fault.

Some person had taken Robin from her. A person had taken the man that she loved from her. A person had denied her the closure of a body for a funeral. Perhaps some curse, or the designs of the gods had conspired against her, but the tools that they had used to hurt her had been people. The witch took in a long breath, filling her body with a new purpose. People were made of flesh and bone. People could bleed and die. While desperation and hope had kept the Plegian witch moving this long, they didn’t burn nearly as bright or hot as revenge and hate.

oOoOo

It seemed that no matter where they went, the Shepards were always able to find the ruined remnants of a stone building or two. These small stone buildings that had forgotten their original purpose seemed to crop up everywhere. On the battlefield, they could serve as cover, or a space that a fighter might catch their breath. In camp they could serve as a storehouse, and for the Shepards, sometimes a holding area.

The young magician from the future let herself hang from the chain that kept her wrists bound to the ceiling. Her head hung forward, her messy raven-coloured hair falling down to conceal her features. She had watched the shadows grow long with the faint light of the evening sun that filtered in through a small window-like hole. Now the darkness of night had left her with nothing to do but try to get comfortable enough to allow sleep to take her. So far her efforts had taught her that hanging from chains that were suspended from the ceiling was not conducive to falling asleep.

This whole situation was just too confusing. How had she ended up here? Weren’t the Shepards supposed to be good and kind people? It seemed like madness to think that anyone who was good and just would lock her up. She knew that her father could sort all of this out if he was here. Why wasn’t he here? She was sure she had been with him, and then she had ended up wherever this was. Why wasn’t he here? Had something gone wrong? What exactly was going on?

The girl winced, her head beginning to hurt under the weight of all of the questions for which she had no answers. She was sure that there were answers somewhere there, but they just seemed…out of reach. The more she tried to think about what was going on, the more she found gaps in her own memory. Thinking about what that could mean had proved to be incredibly unpleasant.

She knew that she had been doing something with her father. It had been traveling, going places to see things. That was right, wasn’t it? Maybe they were running away from something? She winced again, and decided not to dwell on the ‘why’. They had gone somewhere and something had happened. She thought she could remember an overwhelming light…or maybe it had been darkness. The next thing she knew she had come to, lost and alone in that ruin.

Maybe something had attacked them, and she had gotten split up from her father. That made sense, right? Her father was always clever, so maybe they had split up as some sort of clever plan. He could have been trying to draw some of her attackers away so that she’d be safe. If that was it, maybe she had gotten cornered and attacked. Maybe she had been hit by some strange dark magic, and that was why she was having trouble remembering things. If that was the case, had the spell run its corse? A shiver ran down her spine at the thought that she might lose even more of her dwindling memories.

These terrifying thoughts of losing even more of her memories did no better as a sleep aid than being bound in chains. Everything had been so terrible so far. She considered the vague possibility that perhaps she had been asleep all along. Maybe the reason that everything felt so nightmarish was because it really was a nightmare. Maybe she just needed to wake up. She could imagine herself safe, asleep in her bed. All she had to do was wake up, and then instead of her memories vanishing, it would be this place that faded away like smoke.

The girl’s head shot up at the sound of footsteps approaching. The thick dirty blanket that had been repurposed as a flap for the holding area was drawn back. A dark shadow slowly slipped into the room its form masked by a long cape. The click of heels against stone followed the form as it moved about the room. The girl narrowed her eyes, following every movement that the dark intruder made.

“Come to finish the job from earlier, Plegian?” The girl spat angrily, rattling her chains a little, “Just like a villain to attack someone when they’re unarmed and helpless.”

Even clad in the darkness of shadows, Tharja could hardly conceal her identity. She stood at a table in the corner of the room. She ignored the spite that flowed from the bound girl’s mouth as she went about her work. She placed a collection of materials and equipment that she had brought with her onto the table, including a grimoire that she casually flipped open. Her fingertips traced over the lines of text and the arcane symbols that decorated its pages.

The girl struggled a bit against her chains, trying to seem strong even as fear wormed its way into her voice, “Not going to try to defend yourself, villain?”

Tharja continued to ignore the raving girl, her eyes scanning the book as she slowly turned its pages. Some of the symbols seemed to glow with an eerie light when her fingertips left the page. Sometimes a crackling energy seemed to creep up the dark sorceress’s fingertips as the tips of her nails threatened to cut into the weathered pages of the book.

“Y-You don’t intimidate me!” The girl struggled against her own shaking voice, “My father is going to come rescue me!”

The dark witch paused for a moment at the girl’s threat. Her fingertips stayed as if glued to the page before her, but her eyes turned to the hanging girl. The air between them suddenly turned heavy and cold. The girl thought for a moment that she could actually see clouds of her own breath before her eyes as shivers ran down her spine. What was with that reaction?

The girl shuddered softly, letting her arms go slack as a terrifying thought entered her mind. What if the person that had been leading the attack on her and her father was none other than this Plegian witch? That made sense right? The plegians often had those terrifying monsters from the ruins around. Maybe this witch was the one who had been stealing her memories. She certainly seemed skilled enough after that battle. Maybe…what if their battle hadn’t been the only one? What if this witch had also fought with her father?

The raven-haired girl swallowed hard as she looked at the witch, a dry whisper slipping from her throat, “No…He’s too strong. You couldn’t have killed him.”

“Silence.” Tharja snapped her fingers as if casting a spell, “I don’t have time for this.”

The girl pulled against her chains a bit hard, desperate to free herself. She needed to do something. If she could get free she could attack the witch before she cast whatever spell she was working on. If she was free she could make an attack, maybe grab the grimoire and make an escape. If she was free…maybe she could do something to get revenge for her father.

The girl shot a glare full of anger and hate at the witch, “If you’ve hurt him-!”

“I said ‘silence’.” Tharja let her head roll back on her shoulders as she looked back at the girl. Her hand slipped over to the hilt of a sword that she had placed on the table, drawing it off of the wooden surface. It hung heavy at her side, her arms not used to wielding something so much heavier than her usual grimoires. Her eyes glowed with a cold energy, completing the image of some terrifying demon.

Hot tears of fear stung at the girl’s eyes as she looked at the witch-turned monster before her. There wasn’t going to be a chance for escape. She wasn’t going to be able to make that move to the table with the grimoire. She wasn’t going to be able to try and run away. There was never going to be an opportunity for her to get revenge on this witch for hurting her or her father. This was a terrifying beast of legend, something that could devour her very soul. Even with all of her training, this was an enemy that she was sure she could not defeat.

Tharja let her cold stare linger on the trembling and crying girl for a long moment, considering her next action. Dealing with children had always proven to be a difficult task. They were always filled with so many wild emotions when she watched them from the shadows. No mater how excited they looked to be having fun, those emotions always twisted into fear the moment they spotter her. Everyone was always so afraid of the Plegian witch. Comfortable in her own company, Tharja had cultivated those emotions because it kept people away. Now she saw that when they couldn’t get away, it had the power to render them into a weeping mess.

“Your crying isn’t useful to me.” The witch’s voice had a dangerous calm to it as she turned her eyes back to the open grimoire.

The girl swallowed the soft sobs that she hadn’t realized she was making, “W-what are y-you g-g-gonna d-do to m-me?”

Tharja rolled her eyes before turning her attention back to the hanging girl, “What do you think? Perhaps I’ve come to murder you.” Tharja took a step towards the girl, her heel letting out a dangerous click against the stone floor, “No, much too simple for a Plegian witch. Maybe I plan to torture you, to bathe in your screams and blood.” Her eyes watched as the girl’s face went pale, “Oh, but why settle when I have so much magic at my disposal? Maybe I should break your mind, or destroy your soul…”

The girl shivered, the blood retreating from her face, “M-My f-father-”

“Maybe I should burn your body to ashes and send you to join him.” Tharja snapped.

The words tasted foul on her tongue, but they served their purpose of putting an end to the girl’s snivelling resistance. It was the first time Tharja had audibly accepted that Robin really could be…’ _gone_ ’ as they had been putting it. Her heart ached at the very thought of it, and she pushed that feeling down. That pain was not useful to her at the moment. She’d save it, let it out when her new mission was complete.

“Why?” The whisper cracked against the girl’s throat as she looked at the witch with tears in her eyes.

Tharja gently clicked her tongue as she looked away. The why of it all was an agony that she had been trying not to think about. Every time it came up, it brought with it the dark whispers that assured her that this was all her fault. Were the fates against her finding love and happiness? Was she cursed? Was it just because she had gotten wounded and wasn’t there to protect him? Was it just a random roll of the dice from an uncaring god who moved them about a board in some sort of twisted game? The why of it all was just another thing that was slowing her down, the self-doubt just another emotion that wasn’t useful.

“Why’d you have to kill him?” The girl whispered the pleading question, tears rolling down her cheeks.

The dark witch felt cold tendrils squeeze her heart at hearing such a question from a voice that wasn’t the dark whispers in her head. She grit her teeth and whispered back, “I didn’t kill him.”

The girl either didn’t hear the response, or didn’t care, “He…He n-never did anything to you.” Her voice had a bit more power now.

Tharja felt her fingers curl into tight fists, her sharpened nails biting into the flesh of her palms, “I didn’t…” she hissed the whisper between clenched teeth.

“He was g-good and k-kind…He was nice to everyone!” The girl’s chest heaved with a sob, “Why would you…Why did you kill my dad!?”

Tharja’s body moved on instinct again. Her free hand shot forward, her fingers curling tightly around the collar of the girl’s shirt. Her face transformed into a mask of pain and rage as the fist that held the sword at her side shook under the weight of her twisting emotions. Fresh tears stung at the Plegian’s eyes as she stared at the sobbing girl who had been frightened into silence by the sudden aggressive movement.

The dark sorceress took a long breath and let her shaking fingers slip loose of their hold on the girl’s collar. When she spoke, the cold calm of her voice cracked under the pressure of her pain, “I loved your father.” She let her arm fall limp at her side, her eyes falling down to the ground, “I’d never do anything to intentionally harm him, or his family.”

The girl hiccuped softly as she looked at the defeated and grieving witch. She knew that deflated feeling. It was how she felt when the witch had revealed the fate of her father. It was the broken and empty look of someone who had experienced true loss. The girl felt like she was looking in a mirror, seeing her own grief and pain reflected back at her. She let her body go slack, hanging lifelessly from the chains that held her to the ceiling.

“What do you want from me?” The raven-haired girl whispered the words, feeling the last of her resolve vanish under the pain of their shared loss.

Tharja turned her eyes back to the table in the corner where she had been working, “Whoever took Robin from us…they might still.” Tharja turned her eyes back to the hanging girl, “They might still have his body.”

The girl raised her head, a mixture of confusion and despair painting her features, “What?” She shook her head slowly, “Why?”

Tharja shook her head slowly at another why question that was too horrible to contemplate, and not useful to her at the moment, “I’ve been working on location spell to.” She chewed on her bottom lip for a moment, “I need your help, child.”

The girl took in a long breath to steady her nerves and prepare herself, “I have a name, you know.”

“I’m sure.” Tharja slowly closed her eyes, “Just as my name is not actually ‘Plegian witch’.”

The raven-haired girl winced slightly at that, “Sorry about that.” She sighed softly, “I’m Morgan.”

“Tharja.” The witch nodded and with a wave of her hand, Morgan’s wrists were free, letting her stumble forward a little, “Now stay still so that I can cast the spell.”

Morgan rubbed her wrists now that they were free of the manacles. She looked over to the witch as she went to her corner to work. All of this had been so very strange. She had fought with this woman, and then she’d been taken in by the Shepards. That made sense. After that she had been locked up by what she was sure were the good guys. That hadn’t made any sense at all. Now in her moment of need, the person who had come to her rescue had been none other than the Plegian witch that she had done battle with. It all felt like it was a bit much.

“How does this spell work?” Morgan asked as she watched Tharja work.

The witch let out a soft sigh, “It’s a hex.” She tapped her finger against the page for a moment, “It’s meant to find important things when they’ve become lost.”

Moran furrowed her brows, “I don’t understand.”

Tharja closed her eyes, and reminded herself that this future child was important to the spell, and being kind was the best way to assure her cooperation, “The spell will resonate with an object that has a strong link to you.”

The raven-haired girl from the future nodded, “Alright…but my dad…I mean..he isn’t an object.”

Tharja bit her bottom lip at that logic. Really, when it wasn’t animated by the power of life, it would be hard to argue that a body wasn’t an object. That was probably a discussion that would be too heavy for the girl who had just lost her father. It took her a moment to find a more delicate way to explain the logic.

“His robes are objects. His notebooks are objects. His ri-” Tharja stopped herself. Morgan was from a strange and different future. It was possible that her version of Robin didn’t wear a wedding ring. Perhaps Morgan was just some orphaned village girl that Robin had just adopted out of the goodness of his heart. There wasn’t any way of telling if they were even blood related. She started again, “Any keepsakes or trinkets that he kept on his person are objects.”

“I see…” Morgan nodded slowly, bringing her hand to her chin, “So if they have his body It stands to reason that they’d have all of his personal effects.” She seemed to think about this for a moment, “So why do you need me? Wouldn’t you have a personal connection to some of his things?”

Tharja’s lips curled into a mirthless smile, “It’s complicated.” She looked back to Morgan and immediately saw that such an answer would not suffice for the girl.

A long sigh escaped the practitioner of dark arts. There were too many fine details of her hexes to properly explain the problem with casting the spell on herself. It was a hurdle that she had been hoping to conquer since Robin had first gone missing. What she had found in her attempts was that the pull that she felt seemed to be everywhere at once. She supposed it was the feedback that was inherent in using herself as a portion of a spell that found things based on herself. It was kind of like putting a compass on a magnet, which was a metaphor that the young strategist might understand.

The failing of that metaphor was that it didn’t paint a clear enough picture for the young strategist to stop asking question. Regardless of how they were actually related, Morgan had her father’s curious mind, and quick wit to find flaws. It was probably better to explain it as something that was closer to how the spell actually functioned, which in its least complicated explanation was about feeling and following the threads of fate that held things together. Truly a spell worthy of a witch.

Tharja took a long breath, “Fine. I’ll use a metaphor. You’re the boat, the object is the anchor, and I’m a crab crawling along the line between the two. If I was just the boat, I’d need to focus on reeling the line, where the current was taking me, where all of the other waves were trying to push me, and also not accidentally run myself up onto the rocks. That’s all too much, even for me. Better to just be the crab”

Morgan nodded again, “But you will be brining me with you.”

The witch narrowed her eyes slightly as she looked at the raven-haired girl, “What makes you think that?”

The young strategist looked over to entrance of the Shepard’s holding area, “Because if you don’t chain me back up I’ll just follow you, which would be more troublesome for you than just bringing me along.” She nodded and crossed her arms, “You also can’t leave me here, because if someone found out and cut the anchor off of the chain, that would also be bad for the crab.”

Tharja frowned softly at the unyielding logic that she had come to expect from people wearing the dark robes of a strategist. It was too familiar to her. She knew that there wasn’t really a way to argue with it either. The girl was right. Either she’d follow along, because of course she would, or someone in the camp would figure out what had happened. With Henry and the other mages around they’d be bound to find out about the hex. Either they’d tap into her hex to chase her down, or they’d just break the link for fear that someone would use it in the other direction. Given their latest strategy meeting, it would be the latter option, and then she’d be left in the middle of nowhere, with nothing to guide her.

“Fine.” The witch made a point to express her reluctance to this new arrangement.

Of course, none of these thoughts were exactly new to Tharja. The whole reason that she had brought the sword was so that she could arm her new comrade in arms. If the strategy meeting had taught Tharja anything, it was that there was that there was only one person who might care as much about finding Robin’s body as her. The young strategist orphan was the one person who could know her pain. Morgan was the only one who would back her on this quest for revenge.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Man figuring out how to make a spell to get Tharja where she needed to be to become a terrifying avenging angel was a bit of a toughie.
> 
> What adventures await Tharja and Morgan on their quest to seek revenge? Will they discover that family doesn't necessarily need to be blood, and that a mutual love for Robin, and their shared loss over his death can hold them together? Will Tharja ever be able to forgive herself for getting wounded back in chapter one? If Robin has been turned into a horrible Risen monster, will Tharja and Morgan be able to bring themselves to strike it down!? Tune in next time! Same bat-time! Same bat-channel!


	6. A Hex Called Faith

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In an abandoned outpost, truths and fates are revealed.

Times of war often served as the perfect breeding ground for bandits and other ne’er-do-wells. Villages that could have fended for themselves before had more trouble when most of the population with fighting talent had been recruited for the war effort. The soldiers needed food in their stomachs and leather armour on their backs. A scarcity of resources forced bandits to be more active, and sometimes turned farmers into criminals just to keep their families fed. Once you added soldiers that had deserted after seeing the horrors of war, and bored mercenaries extorting villages for protection, bandits became an all too common problem.

Bandits spread like a plague, turning regular villagers into criminals. Sometimes it was as simple as leaving villagers with nothing left, no way to survive except to turn to raiding and stealing from others. Sometimes it was the twisted charisma of a bandit leader, making promises of protection, respect, and full bellies.

When a group of bandits grew large enough they’d remember that calling to make a place their home. Sometimes they’d set up a caravan, something that could move around to make raiding easier. Some bandits found shelter in nice dry caves. Some bandits, twisted by a taste of power and respect, might start to see themselves as some sort of royalty though. Those bandits tended to find ruined fortresses to serve as their very own ‘castle’.

Many buildings like this dotted the landscape. Small fortress outposts could serve as watchpoints for trouble on the horizon, or a safe harbour to fall back from front lines. They would stop serving that purpose when the front lines moved. Trading posts could hold goods until they were ready for collection, or could be used by law enforcement to inspect shipments for contraband. Those lost their function if notional borders shifted, or an agreeable relationship between countries soured and trade dried up.

The rhythmic sound of water dripping onto a rough stone floor echoed through a room in a specific example of one of these ‘bandit castles’. It was really just a rough outpost, a small collection of stone buildings. It had likely originally been a trading post or auction house. Years of disuse had resulted in it being a store-house for little more than dust and mold. Its walls showed their age by developing cracks and chips. The musty odour of old straw hung in the air inside of the buildings, generously masking the stench of spilled ale and spoiled food scraps from outside.

A moderately comfortable living arrangement had been made of the ‘warehouse’ of the former trading post. It was filled with the chatter and laughter of drunk and happy bandits. Their leader had cobbled together his approximation of a throne out of an aged plush chair and a collection of broken spears and crates. He could look over the merriment of his men, knowing that he had earned his spot as the _king_ of this _castle_.

What had earned this king his position was more than just the natural charisma that made the other bandits follow him. He had been destined to be a king from the moment he became a bandit. His special talent was the ability to see opportunities, to seize on potential and always strive to reach higher. While most bandits would see this forgotten outpost as a fortress against the elements, or a monument to their power, this bandit had seen it as more. It was a business opportunity.

An old trading post served as a fine fortress, there was no arguing that. A roof over their heads would protect them all from the wind and the rain of storms like the one that had settled over them now. Strong walls were good for defending them from anyone who wanted to do them harm. The forest that had started to reclaim the surrounding area meant that they had cover coming and going. All of it together made for the perfect fortress for a group of bandits who did not want to be found by their enemies.

It was also the perfect place to start a business if someone had illicit goods that they wanted to move. An overgrown and underused road that lead to it made it easy to find if you knew where to look. The fact that it was marked as ruins on a handful of maps made it easy to point out. As it had once held whatever goods had been moving through for trade it had plenty of space for the bandits to run their operation. It also had a long stone building where horses had once been kept. Said building had been converted to accommodate the bandits’ business without much effort at all. While the living conditions of the stables may have been less than ideal, they had proved adequate to hold the human merchandise of slaves.

Going into the salve trade had been a simple, if a bit inhuman, bit of calculation. In a time of war, both sides needed more workers and more soldiers. Regular people could easily be turned into one or the other once they were stripped of their freedoms. All the bandit leader had to do was find the people, and then trade them for a little protection, and some sweet coin to retire on. Once you got over silly human hang-ups, trading in slaves was simple and lucrative.

Waiting to be sold as human merchandise was not particularly exciting. There wasn’t much to do after getting familiar with the cold stone walls and the straw-covered floor. There was always fantasizing about an escape attempt, but without organizing the rest of the slaves, even that seemed more like a pipe-dream. it didn’t help that organizing the slaves seemed like an insurmountable challenge, given the heavy weight of their collective despair.

Bound and unarmed, Robin had found himself with nothing but time and the rough-hewn rope that kept his hands bound. Luckily for Robin, Chrom had often said that his greatest weapon was his keen tactical mind. He had been sorting out the pieces that were available to him, and trying to complete the puzzle of his escape since he had been thrown into the cell. The Shepards had always imagined that he was the kind of person who could make the key to victory out of a piece of string and a dire situation. Now he just had to prove them right.

The strategist let his head fall back against the wall behind him, staring up at the leaky roof of the stables. If he was being totally honest with himself, he wasn’t sure that he deserved all of the planning praise that the Shepards gave him. It had been the spectacular failure of one of his latest plans that had landed him here. At least he had managed to keep himself alive so far. He let his lips curl into a weak smile as he thought back to his capture.

oOoOo

The handle of the broken Levin Sword struck the earth at Robin’s feet. He felt the soft breeze against his face as he looked up to the sky. There weren’t any real options at this point. He didn’t have any weapons to fight back against the bandits anymore. He supposed he could throw a few punches, or kick and scream, but if he was going out anyway, perhaps accepting it was the more dignified response. Bitter emotions gripped at his heart with the knowledge that he wouldn’t get to say goodbye to his loved ones.

With strong hands on his shoulders, and a soft kick to the back of his knees, Robin was forced onto the ground. He relaxed his body, letting them push him down, letting his head tumble forward so that he could look down at the earth. His daydreams of returning home were crushed by the weight of the bandits holding him down for whatever came next. There wasn’t any planning that would get him out of this one.

Robin watched as a pair of boots entered his field of vision. He saw the shadow of the bandit as they crouched down before him. They brought their hand out, forcing his head up so that they could look him in the eye. Robin stared forward at the face of a thin bandit. On his chin was a thin line of facial hair that came to a dagger-like point. Robin narrowed his eyes slightly, searching his mind for why this face would be familiar to him.

“Have we met before?” The strategist asked, feeling a slight well of fear in the back of his mind that all of this might be some cruel twisted plan to enact revenge.

The bandit’s lips twisted into a cruel smile, “Nope. First time.” He let go of Robin’s face, letting his forearms rest on his raised knees.

Robin continued to examine the face of the man for a moment. He narrowed his eyes slightly, and then suddenly he came to an answer, “You sure? I swear we fought you a couple of days ago. I mean, you probably wouldn’t remember me because of the boisterous kid we met up with-”

The bandit shook his head and cut in quickly, “Naw. We ain’t met before. You’d definitely remember running into my pack.”

The strategist bit his bottom lip, considering that it was possible that maybe bandit leaders just had a particular look to them. In the event that they were siblings, it probably wouldn’t be wise to continue with this conversation topic anyway. At the moment, Robin couldn’t remember if the bandit leader that they had helped Owain fight had escaped or not. Letting this man know that they had killed his brother probably wouldn’t inspire him to be more friendly.

“Alright. So I don’t have anything worth stealing if that was your plan.” Robin started, hoping that perhaps they’d let him leave if they knew he had no valuables.

The bandit leader let out a long sigh before chuckling softly, “So you don’t have anything to trade us to keep us from taking you then.” His eyes flicked down to the strategists hand, his lips curling into a soft smile, “Course, if you did, we’d probably just take it anyway.” He made his point by reaching for the ring on Robin’s finger.

Robin moved to pull his hand away, and winced slightly as he felt the grip on his shoulders tighten, “Okay. So what’s the plan then? We haven’t had any problems yet. You could always let me go. I mean, I don’t even know your name.”

“Ezra.” The bandit leader sneered, “You are being taken in by Ezra and his wolf-pack, Mr. Strategist.” He chuckled again, “You killed the guy I was trading with, but those Plegians will be tripping over each other to do business with me when they hear I’ve got you.”

Robin groaned softly. So that was what all of this was about. Suddenly the Plegian camp in the middle of nowhere made sense. He had charged in and foiled a trading alliance between the Plegians and these bandits. He would have been proud of himself if he had managed to make his escape. At least everything was adding up now.

“So you’re mad because I broke up your business?” Robin looked over the crouched man again.

The bandit leader laughed, slapping his hand against his leg, “Nah. Business partners come and go in my trade.” He reached forward and used his rough and dirty fingers to ruffle the strategist’s hair, “No point gettin’ sore about it.” He smiled and drew his hand back, “Besides, I know you’re gonna fetch me a fine bit of coin.”

It really was the worst situation for Robin. The man he was dealing with was of a single mind. There wasn’t a way that the strategist could debate or negotiate his way out of this situation. Everyone at the table could see that he wasn’t holding any cards. He couldn’t fight his way out. He couldn’t run away. The only course of action was to bide his time, make plans, and hope for an opportunity to act. 

Ezra smiled and pushed himself to his feet, “Alright boys, get him up. We’ll get him back to the castle and then we’ll figure out how to approach the Plegians about their lost man, and our new exciting business opportunity.”

oOoOo

Robin let out a low groan as he let his head fall back against the wall again. He held up his hand, looking up at the the line of skin where his wedding ring had been. It seemed that the oxidization of the metals in the ring had stained his skin black. As much as Tharja had hated the cheap ring that he had chosen, he suspected that this unforeseen consequence of its design would have pleased her to no end.

“I can’t believe he took my ring.” Robin muttered to himself as he continued to look at the band of stained skin. The ring wasn’t even really worth anything. What kind of a monster stole a wedding ring, especially when it clearly wasn’t worth anything?

A timid voice came from the next cell over, “Ezra likes to keep trophies.”

Robin turned his head slowly. He had been aware that there was a person in the next cell over for a while. When the guards came with food it had been hard not to notice that there were multiple stops that they made. He hadn’t really made much effort to engage them in conversation. With him being the newest resident of the stables, Robin had assumed that if people were interested in speaking they’d start the conversation. He’d also assumed that them speaking to each other was going to be against some kind of rule. He didn’t want to get anyone in trouble by being too chatty.

The strategist took a long breath before gently pressing a little further, “Did he take your wedding ring too?” The voice sounded like it belonged to a young girl. Young girls were probably the bulk of Ezra’s slave trade.

There was a long pause for a moment before the voice from the next cell responded, “Well…sort of…” The owner of the feminine voice seemed to pause again as if searching for the best words, “He took…He took my talisman.”

Robin nodded before lowing his hand again and staring at the far wall of his cell, “Ah. A talisman.” He smiled as he considered what that sort of thing could mean, “Are you some sort of spell-caster or something?”

The voice on the other side of the wall responded with the practiced weakness of someone who had answered that question before, “No.”

Robin closed his eyes, mentally crossing ‘a possible fellow caster’ off of the list of assets for his escape. He remembered something in his research about a sect or warrior monks that were masters of martial arts that carried talismans. From what he could recall they used them to invoke the strength of their god or something. Somehow it gave them the power to fight like vicious berserkers. That clearly didn’t sound like the girl in the next cell.

Odds were that this ‘talisman’ was just some sort of lucky charm or something. He had seen things like that at festivals. Little silk bags that had a lucky symbol sewn into them. Really, the only ‘magic’ that they tended to hold was a coin for luck, or some herbs meant to ward off some sort of superstitious monster. It wasn’t the sort of thing that would be useful in their escape, but was the sort of thing that someone might keep as a trophy.

Robin let out a mirthless chuckle, “Don’t suppose he’s the kind of guy that would give those sorts of things back, eh?”

There was no response from the other side of the wall. The silence really served as a better answer Robin’s rhetorical question than any words would have. The strategist had to admit, it was was a cunning strategy. Ezra had essentially taken the treasured belongings of his slaves hostage. Of course they’d likely never get them back, even if they behaved, and the plan had likely just been to accumulate treasure. Still taking peoples treasures probably meant that most people would stick around long enough to try and find them. Sticking around after an escape was a great way to get re-captured.

In Robin’s case, the ring didn’t have all that much monetary value. There was, of course, the sentimental value, but its monetary worth was still virtually zero. Also in Robin’s case, the sentimental value was offset by how Tharja felt about it. She had a passionate dislike for how cheap and simple it was. If he returned without the ring, she’d likely celebrate its disappearance. She’d also likely demand a second wedding ceremony for the new ring, complete with the excitement of a honeymoon after.

“Well…as long as we sit tight someone will probably come to save us.” He smiled softly as he looked up at the ceiling. Tharja was probably demanding that the Shepards drop everything else to look for him at that very moment. He almost felt bad for Chrom having to deal with the wild and intense emotions of the sorceress.

The voice from the other side of the wall had the resigned tone of someone who had long since given up on the fight, “No one is going to find us out here…”

Robin closed his eyes and took in a long breath.That discussion had turned very discouraging very quickly. The girl was almost so discouraging that for a moment he wondered if she had actually been planted there. He seemed to remember something about butcher shops keeping pet goats as a way of tricking the other animals into thinking everything was safe. This could easily be a similar strategy. Put someone next to him to say discouraging things and dissuade him from an escape attempt. She might even be some sort of spy, reporting everything that he said back to Ezra.

It was just as likely that the girl had just given up on hope. This whole situation seemed rather hopeless, so it would be easy enough to do. If he let himself think about it logically, it was possible that the Shepards all thought he was dead. The thought of Tharja bursting through the wall to save him gave him comfort, but that only lasted until he considered how this all had to look to them. The last time anyone from his team had seen him alive he had been surrounded by Plegians.

“Things will work out somehow.” Robin said the words, unsure for a moment who he was trying to convince. If they couldn’t count on people to come save them, that just made his escape plans more necessary, “Our chance to get out of here will be around before you know it.” If the girl was a spy, she could report back that he hadn’t been broken yet. If she wasn’t a spy, perhaps his positivity would rub off on her.

There was a long pause from the other side of the wall before the girl’s voice came back, “What if it doesn’t? What if this is just our fate?”

The strategist felt the corners of his lips twitched slightly as he thought about how his fellow Shepards would respond to that question, “I challenge my fate.” He closed his eyes taking in a long breath as he receipted the battle-cry of the blue-haired heiress.

The voice on the other side of the wall remained silent. Robin wasn’t sure if the optimism of Lucina had been a bit too much for his fellow slave. It was also just a challenging declaration. Robin remembered the first time he had heard her say it. He had thought it seemed like a rather bold statement to make at the time. Still, Lucina and all of the other children from the future were surely giving fate a run for its money.

All of the Shepards had actually been doing a great job of battling with the foe called fate. They had been given a glimpse into a cruel and uncaring future. The gods had given them the ultimatum of fight or die, and every member of the Shepards had risen to that challenge. Robin had made enemies of a fell dragon. He had declared that this cruel fate itself was his enemy. It was unimaginable that his story could come to an end here, taken down by some slave-trading bandits.

For now, the bound strategist stared at the wooden door that stood between him and the first step towards his freedom. He imagined that slamming his shoulder into it might eventually bring it down. It would also cause a good deal of noise, alerting everyone to the fact that he was doing it. Busting down the door just to be battered, worn and surrounded by guards that had been alerted by his less than stealthy escape attempt would be bad. The word ‘bad’ was actually a phenomenal understatement.

Luckily, the solid structure of the door might actually not have all been bad. Without flaps or holes, when it came to meal time, the guards had to open and close the door to make their deliveries. Getting past the door would be much easier if the door was already open to facilitate the delivery of his food. Of course, waiting for that moment also had a few drawbacks. The most notable was that instead of a door, he would have to contend with a guard.

It was a good start to a plan. Dealing with the door and then dealing with the guard was going to be a non-starter. If he somehow managed to deal with the door, he’d likely be too tired to also deal with the guard. Breaking down the door just to run into a guard and get thrown back in would be pitiful, and would just make future breakout attempts harder. Waiting for the guard to deal with the situation and dealing with the guard was probably his best move.

Robin quickly thought back to all of the times that he had seen the guard who delivered his meals. He had the standard bandit muscle, so he wasn’t going to be a pushover. He also didn’t really look like he was ever expecting to be attacked when he dropped off dinner. On his hip he always wore that chipped bronze sword. Tackling a guy with a bronze sword was still dangerous, but safer than if it were something like a Killing Edge. Also, even though it wasn’t particularly imposing, a bronze sword would still be an improvement to Robin’s current armament situation.

A slim smile spread across Robin’s lips. This whole adventure had started as a plan to steal weapons from bandits. There was a certain poetry to the fact that part of his escape plan now depended on him beating up a bandit and stealing his sword. He also took a small pleasure in the fact that if he succeeded, he’d technically be able to mark his mission as a success. It may have cost him more time than it was worth, and it had certainly been uncomfortable, but it would still technically be success. He wondered if the other Shepards would let him have that victory.

The strategist let out a weak chuckle as he thought about the conversation he’d have to have with Tharja. There was no way that she was ever going to accept that all of time she had spent worrying about him was going to have been worth it. She was definitely going to demand that he never be allowed to go on a mission without her again. He had been treating her rather delicately since she had been wounded. Knowing Tharja, she’d also declare that he’d have never been in danger if she had been around.

Honestly, the fact that Tharja wasn’t here with him was a thing that Robin was kind of thankful for. There was no way that they’d have ever been put in the same cell together. Ezra might have thought to use her as a hostage to make him compliant. The proud sorceress never would have allowed herself to be used in such a manner. In the end they’d have probably killed her out of fear of what she could do to them. It was the thoughts of what a group of lonely bandits might have done to her before they killed her that haunted Robin though. They weren’t the sort of thing the strategist wanted to dwell on.

When Robin really thought about it, the fact that the voice from the next cell over was clearly female was a little concerning. The appetites of bandits weren’t exactly a secret. It was Robin’s experience that they were so well known, and so pronounced that 'bandit’ was a career path that was exclusively male. Now that he thought about it, he didn’t think he had ever seen a female bandit. A young girl didn’t belong in the hands of bandit slavers with their cruel designs.

The strategist could almost feel Tharja’s frustration with his thought process. If she had been there she’d have told him off by saying that he was too kind and naive when it came to people. She’d have told him that it was her job to protect him from his own kindness. He knew that she wouldn’t really mean it though. Robin had always been ready to accept everyone. It was probably one of the things that Tharja liked about him. Of course, there was no way she’d ever admit it, Tharja likely would have been disappointed in him if he found the will to leave people behind in this kind of situation.

So that was settled. After escaping, Robin was going to have to spend a little bit of time freeing the other slaves. There wasn’t a point in debating it. It was the right thing to do. It also didn’t seem like it would be overly hard. Of the times that Robin had seen the guard he had never seen any keys on his belt. He had never heard them jingle as he walked. The door was likely barred by a pice of wood. It was good at keeping people in, but once he got out, those doors were easy to unlock.

As he was considering all of this, Robin heard the noise of something rubbing against his cell door. That sound meant that his chance was upon him. He couldn’t really afford to wait. The way that Ezra had talked about his deal with the Plegians suggested that they would be here to collect him any moment. In the worst case scenario, this wasn’t a meal, and they were ready to collect him now. Even with just his half-baked plan, he had to go now.

The door began to crack open, and Robin’s mind quickly ran though all of the myriad of situations that he might have to deal with. Jumping the guard was certainly not going to work out for him if the Plegians were already here. Scaling that back, a second guard would also be very bad, but if he was very careful, and every lucky, it was doable. The important step after his attack would be to not get stabbed. Everything went bad if that bronze sword came into play and he was the one who got stabbed.

Robin dove forward as the guard came into view. The attack was simple. It had to be with Robin’s wrists bound by the rough-hewn rope. He charged forward and buried his shoulder into the guard’s chest. It was similar to the method that he had been considering using on the door. Putting his entire weight behind the strike that the bandit never had a chance to prepare for resulted in the guard staggering backwards, and Robin tumbling after him.

The strategist grit his teeth, moving quickly. Just because he had knocked over the guard didn’t mean that this was over. The bandit below him let out a low groan, bringing one of his hands to his head. Robin looked down, moving his bound hands quickly to find the hilt of the bronze sword at the bandit’s hip. He drew the weapon quickly, arming himself with it. Even if his ability to use it was impaired with his wrists bound, having it in his hands was better than leaving it on the bandit’s belt.

Without turning the sword, Robin’s mind roared forward for the next step towards his escape. He hadn’t been grabbed yet, which was a good indication that if there was a second guard they had been stunned into inaction. The strategist didn’t have time to revel in that small victory while he still had a groaning bandit. The bandit made that point clear when one of his meaty hands came up to press a sweaty palm against Robin’s throat.

The strategist looked over the bandit quickly, trying to find an opening that he could reach with his impaired mobility. It was difficult to see where he could reach. The bandit’s fingers clamped against his neck, pressing into his skin with bruising force. Robin felt his lungs burn under the extra strain of trying filter so much breath through the newly strained entryway.

What was he supposed to do now? Robin felt the warning bells of danger clanging in the back of his mind, reminding him how deadly all of this could be. He needed to kill the bandit, but how? He couldn’t get his arms up for a slash, or even to attack the bandit’s head and neck. With his hands bound, and the bandit’s hand tight around his neck, there weren’t many unarmored spots that he could reach. The strategist really only saw one opening.

Robin pushed the tip of the blade under the bandit’s armpit. That leather armour that they all wore might not be the best, but it would be enough to slow him down. It had thick shoulder pads, and slats that layered over the chest. The thing it didn’t have was sleeves. They had greaves to protect their shins, and bracers to protect their forearms. Bandit armour just wasn’t prepared for an up-close and personal finesse attack, like a knife to the side.

It was going to be hard, and it wasn’t going to be pleasant. Robin didn’t have time to look for a more humane way to dispatch the bandit. The tip of the bronze sword cut into skin, scratching against rib bones as Robin used all of his might to push it into the bandit’s body. He felt it tear through muscles and organs as the tip of the blade vanished beyond the unprotected skin under the bandit’s shoulder.

The bandit’s eyes went wide in the horror and shock of his last moments. The bronze sword groaned under the pressure that Robin was pressing into it. Robin felt hot blood and spit spray against his face as the bandit tried to cough up the blood that was flooding his lungs. Robin winced slightly as he watched the last light of life fade from the bandit’s eyes.

Robin swallowed in gasps of breath as the bandit’s hand finally went limp and fell from its place at his throat. He coughed at the burning sensation of air rushing through his aching throat. After a quick moment, Robin reminded himself that he didn’t have extra time to recover. He let go of the sword for a moment, bringing his hands over and past it. With his arms on either side of the bronze blade, Robin brought his hands back, sawing through the rope with the chipped edge of the weapon.

So far the hallway had stayed empty. In all of the panic and action, Robin couldn’t remember if he had heard the bandit scream, so there was no guarantee it would stay that way. The strategist looked back and forth down the hallway to double check. Seeing no one, he took a moment and rubbed his sleeve against his face, clearing away the sweat and blood. he placed his foot against the bandit’s side, and with both hands yanked the bronze sword free.

On the mental checklist for his escape, Robin could mark off dealing with the door, the guard, and the rope. It hadn’t been what he would call pleasant, but it wasn’t like this was the first life Robin had taken. He stumbled a little as he took a step forward, steading himself against the wall with his free hand. The next step in making an escape with a clean conscience was to set loose the other slaves.

The process was a quick and easy one. First he’d take down the cross bar and open the door. Next would be the friendly wave to let them so that he could approach them. After that, he’d use the bronze sword to cut their bindings, and then it was just a case of sending them on their way. Repeat as necessary. Unfortunately, as Robin came to the cell next to his, where that hopeless sounding girl was, things became a little more complicated.

A crackling boom cut through the air and echoed off of the walls. Robin winced as he registered the sound of a magical explosion. A heated battle with magic being hurled about was going to complicate his escape plan. Hopefully the people that he had already freed would be able to slip away without notice. It definitely wouldn’t be good for unarmed civilians to get caught up in the crossfire.

Robin leaned down by the last door, hooking the heavy slat of wood with his shoulder and heaving it out of place. He smiled weakly as he started to crack open the door, “I told you an opportunity to escape would come up.”

The weak voice came from the darkness of the cell, “It sounds dangerous out there…maybe…maybe we should stay put instead? It’s probably safer.”

The strategist felt himself deflate, his shoulders slumping forward, “If I had to guess, all of that noise is a squad of Plegian dark mages.” He looked back down the hallway, “The Plegians are after me…for reasons that I’d rather not get into now. He wanted to trade me for a heavy bag of coins. They obviously decided it was cheaper and nobler to come here and kill everyone instead of paying him.” Robin turned his eyes back to the crack between the door and its frame, “It’s definitely not safer to stay here.”

A soft noise somewhere between a whimper and a sob came from inside of the cell, “I don’t…” She paused to sort her thoughts, “I don’t know what I should do.”

Robin nodded and nudged the door a little bit further with his foot. As ridiculous as what she was saying was, it was also fair. She had been taken in by these slavers, and gone through horrors that the strategist could hardly imagine. Now everything was chaos and things were literally exploding, and a stranger was telling her that she should run. Aside from him saying some nice things, he hadn’t really done anything to earn her trust.

“I’m not sure what you should do either.” Robin spoke the words softly, scratching at the back of his head, “What I _do_ know is that I have to leave.” He held his hand up to the crack in the door, “You can come with me if you’d like.”

A pale hand tentatively poked past the crack in the door. Delicate feminine fingers slowly inched towards the outstretched hand. She traced her fingertips over the thin line of stained skin where the brass ring had once been before slowly curling her fingers around his. The girl pulled the door open a little more, examining her saviour from inside of her cell.

“Ah…” It was a startled and surprised noise that came from the girl’s lips, but there was a layer of calm just under the surface, “You’re…” The girl bit her bottom lip for a moment, her eyes darting back and forth before shooting to the ground, “You’re Robin, the strategist for the Shepards.”

Robin tried not to let himself go tense at the fact that the girl had immediately identified him. He supposed that he had kind of become famous with all of his work with the Shepards. This was what being famous champion must have been like. The logical part of his mind told him that the girl recognizing him was a dangerous thing, that it could mean she meant him harm. Something else told him that wasn’t true. Maybe it was just that he had spent the last few days sitting in a cell next to her, or maybe it was that timid frightened voice. Whatever it was, something made him want to protect the frightened girl.

“I guess my name kind of gets around.” Robin smiled weakly.

The girl gasped and brought her hand to her mouth, “Oh! Sorry. You can call me Noire.” She blushed a little bit and dipped her head as if hoping that she could hide behind her head of white hair.

With a quick nod the strategist turned his eyes back down the hall, “Alright, Noire. Stay behind me. I’ll protect you.”

Noire nodded, keeping her gaze down at the strategists boots. As she followed him out of her cell she responded to him with a whisper, “I know…you always do.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ha. Of course Robin wasn't dead. I may be bad at using tags, but I do know that the "Major Character Death" tag is a thing that exists.
> 
> Anyway, most of this chapter kind of felt like a chore to write. I hope it doesn't feel like a chore to read. Originally it was going to be chapter 5 because I didn't want to leave you guys thinking that Robin was dead for too long, and I didn't want the reveal that he was still alive to feel like a cheat. In the middle of writing this one, I got frustrated and then wrote something that'll happen later. I also discovered that if I did this before what is now chapter 5 it would have taken a lot of the oomph out of what I was doing there. I rarely go back and do re-writes to make something feel better, and this chapter got a lot of re-writes. Anyway, I hope it's okay.
> 
> Will Robin and Noire escape the slave camp? Will can they survive the Plegian attack on the bandits? Will they get captured, giving Robin his heroic death as Noire gets passed around a group of villains for that NTR scene that I know all my readers are dying for? How will Henry react to the discovery that Tharja's future daughter has his trademark white hair!? Tune in next ti- Wait...what's going on...?


	7. A Hex Called Fate

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Under the cold rain a force of rage and vengeance is unleashed, burning away all that stand in its way. Revenge burns with a fire that is both bright and hot, can our heroes survive, or will they be consumed by the flames?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two chapters at once!? What madness is this!?

Chilling raindrops fell down against the dense foliage of the forest in their final quest to find the dark earth below. It wasn’t the heavy kind of rain that wore down travellers with its constant barrage of water. Instead it was the soft cold rain that turned the earth to mud, birthed fog from the ground, and quietly stole the heat from the bones of anyone caught in it. It was the kind of rain that would soak through clothes, its chill lingering in muscles long finding a dry space by the fire to recover.

Tharja barely noticed the rain. Her body felt numb to these simple mortal concerns such as cold and pain. Compared to the icy grip on her heart, the rain’s chill felt like nothing at all. The extra weight of the water in her cape hung heavy on her shoulders, but the rage and pain that fuelled her movement offered her more than enough strength to carry such a small burden. No weather could stop her from following where her spell led. Rain hadn’t stopped her from coming to this spot in the trees where she could see the broken ruins that the spell told her was her destination.

The only reason that the dark witch took any notice of the rain was because she had spent so much time with the strategic mind of Robin. She could almost hear his whispered voice at the back of her mind, telling her everything that the rain meant. Undisciplined fighters like bandits would shirk their duties to avoid the discomfort of the rain. There would be less guards outside. The low fog that clung to the trees offered cover. A stealthy approach could take advantage of that, but she’d need to be careful of surprises. The cold would steal strength from hands and weigh down anyone wearing cloth. Physical battles would be more taxing, so the usual battles of stamina were more even.

Boiling all of these facts down to the core concept, Tharja couldn’t have asked for better weather. Physical attacks had never been her preference, and anything that lessened the chance of a repeat of her previous failure with a bandit was welcome. The cold that stole strength and dexterity from fingers meant that archers would be less accurate and take more time. That made her magic the best weapon for a ranged conflict. Finally, with guards hiding inside the buildings to avoid the rain, all of her targets would be nicely grouped up for her.

The dark witch took in a long breath of the cold air, her eyes scanning what would soon be her battlefield. She’d enjoy punishing these villains that had dared to take what was hers. She’d spit out all of her anger and her heat, bathing in the catharsis of her sweet revenge. She’d feel them bend and break under the force of her will, and listen to their cries for the final mercy of their deaths.

“I don’t see any guards.” Tharja’s companion interrupted her thoughts, reminding her that she wasn’t alone in the forest.

Morgan had done well. She had never complained about the cold, or suggested that they turn back. The raven-haired girl had never suggested something so foul as leaving their targets alive. There were no conversations where they tried to get to know each other, or work their way through their shared loss. As much as Tharja hated to admit it, the young girl was turning out to be her perfect traveling companion. The witch wondered if most of that opinion rested in the fact that she had almost forgotten that the girl was with her until that moment.

Tharja spoke with a dark voice that was void of emotion, “The rain drove them inside.” She stared at the stone building as if the power of her glare were enough do raze it, “They think they’re safe, warm by their fire.” She pulled a tome bound in a dark material from her cape, flipping it open with one hand and tracing its arcane symbols with the other, “I’ll teach them how wrong they are.”

The raven-haired strategist nodded silently from her spot behind the dark witch. Her calculating eyes ran over the stone walls, letting her mark off entrances and openings in her mental map. The first step to surviving any battle plan was to be aware of where an attack might come from. Morgan had learned the lessons of tactics well under her father’s tutelage. Crossing the open space between the forest and the fortress would be the time at which they were the most vulnerable, and, as a result, was the time that they needed to be the most careful. From what she could see there were possible dangers, but nothing worth reporting at the moment.

Suddenly, Morgan spotted something that was worth reporting. The door on the building that was longer than it was wide opened, and a group of humanoid silhouettes slipped out. She narrowed her eyes as she watched them deploy a clumsy stealth strategy to slip through the fog. The girl brought her hand to the sword at her hip, a memory of fighting half dead monsters coming to the surface of her mind. This could be some sort of attack.

“I see a small group cutting through the fog.” Morgan whispered the words to Tharja.

The dark witch turned her eyes to the silhouettes, watching as they tried to slip through the fog on tired legs. She saw them hugging themselves in a vain attempt to hold in the warmth, and to make themselves smaller targets for archers. Her eyes saw no trace of weapons, no attack posture. These people were trying to run away. They were likely just the evening’s entertainment, creeping away with whatever modest coin they had been able to collect from their captors. They weren’t marching to attack, they were fleeing in search of a place that they could warm themselves and forget that they had traded the tatters of their pride for coin.

“Not fighters.” Tharja’s uncaring voice seemed colder than the rain. She clicked her tongue and turned her eyes back to the fortress and began her slow march, “Their absence might be noticed by those inside. We need to attack now.”

Morgan looked from the escaping group to Tharja, and then back again. If they were just regular people who had found themselves here, they were in danger. What if they had families, people who were lost and waiting for their return? How many young girls were weeping waiting for a loved one who might never come home? If Morgan let these people get hurt or die, how would she be able to face anyone they left behind? How would she be able to face herself?

The girl from the future grabbed Tharja’s arm, stopping her march, “We can’t. They could get hurt.”

Tharja turned her head slowly, capturing Morgan in her dark empty eyes. She exuded a chill that was deeper and harder to shake than any rain could ever hope to be. The fog around the sorceress seemed to twist and transform into a foul miasma, a physical representation of the darkness inside of her. Morgan felt a stinging energy bite into her fingertips, jolting her hand away from the sorceress’s arm.

“I won’t let them, or you stand in my way.” Tharja spoke the words in the same cold and empty voice, “If you don’t have the stomach for it, then you should get them off the field.” With that she returned to her march.

Morgan’s fingers trembled from a mix of the cold and the magical energy that Tharja had used to throw her off. It was clear to her what this was now. The location spell hadn’t really been about finding Robin. They hadn’t snuck out of the Shepard’s camp because getting caught would mean trouble. Every choice that the witch had been made in the service of finding revenge. It had all been to give her a destructive outlet for her rage and pain. She was journeying down a path that threatened to take her humanity. Morgan wasn’t sure she was ready to follow.

The young strategist bit her bottom lip and sprinted towards the group of cowering people. As they saw her coming, some of them took weak defensive stances while others fell to their knees accepting a doomed fate. When she was finally close enough that the fog could no longer hide their features from each other she could see the fear and despair on their faces. She knew that what Tharja had said was true.

They were dirty and frail. Instead of armour or battle robes, they wore rags with belts of braided hemp. They had the weathered faces of those who’s fighting days were but a distant memory, or the fairer features of those who had never fought a day in their life. None of them had the muscles of fighters, instead they had the calloused hands of farmers, or weak and frail bodies that had kept them from escaping. These people were just that, people. They were victims who had been dealt a bad hand by a terrible fate.

If Robin were here, he would help these people. That was the only thought Morgan had as she looked at them cowering in fear. Any time she questioned her path, she knew that she just had to ask herself what Robin would want her to do. The one thing that was clear was that Robin wouldn’t have had her follow Tharja down the twisting path of revenge.

An explosion of magic cracked against the stone and brick of the battered ruins. Clearly the path of revenge didn’t allow for an excess of patience. Morgan gave one last longing look to the dark sorceress as she began her brutal crusade. Tharja was powerful enough that the young strategist didn’t need to worry about her. The people who needed her now were the ones that wouldn’t fare so well in a battle.

Morgan held out her hand to the escapees, forcing her face into as warm a smile as she could muster, “Lets get you out of here before you get hurt.”

oOoOo

Sounds of commotion and panic cut through the air, clear reminders of the chaos that was being visited upon the ruined outpost. The danger of the battle was almost so thick that you could taste it in the air. The sounds of danger permeated the cracking walls, warning that even taking shelter within their cold stone embrace would not offer true protection.

Noire felt her fingers squeeze a little bit tighter around those of the white-haired strategist. He had promised to keep her safe, to help her get out of the hell of the den of the slaving bandits. He was going to lead her through all of that vicious chaos and danger, and out the other side. She wasn’t going to have to think about any of this ever again. She squeezed on to his hand, the physical proof of the promise that he had made to her.

The girl’s eyes looked down at his hand, taking note of the thin line of stained skin on his ring finger. He had physical proof of another promise as well, and it had been taken from him. If they left now it would mean leaving that behind. She bit her bottom lip. If they left now it meant leaving her talisman, and the memento of her mother that she had hidden inside of it behind as well. Could she really leave that behind? Would she still be useful to anyone as she was now, the scared little girl who ran away from problems instead of facing them?”

“We…We can’t leave yet…” Noire hated the words as they left her mouth. She didn’t want to be here any longer than necessary. She certainly didn’t want to go running into a battle to get her things.

Robin’s fingers twitched within the girl’s grasp, “What? Why?”

The girl attempted to swallow her doubt, looking up at her saviour from under her bangs, “I need to get…my talisman. I can’t…I can’t leave it here. We have to g-go g-get it.” Her voice began to shudder with the fear as she finished her plea.

The strategist winced slightly as he considered all of the warring factors involved with that request. Dancing across a battlefield was a dangerous proposition under the best of circumstances. Slipping through unscathed while people were hurling magic, with his only armament being the chipped bronze sword was a different level. If they got hit by an errant lightning blast, or turned a corner into a group of bandits, that was going to be the end of their little adventure.

“Can we get a new one instead?” Robin looked back at white-haired girl, hoping against hope that there was some way that he could get out of having to run across an active battlefield.

“It’s not just some charm…” Noire felt her features sink, hating herself for having to ask these kinds of things of the person who had already saved her. She knew that she was useless without the talisman to bring forth the part of her that was brave. She also knew that it wasn’t exactly something that she could just buy at a festival “It’s…It’s the last m-memento of my m-mother…”

The strategist grit his teeth and looked back to the door. He couldn’t ask her to leave something like that behind. He couldn’t remember his parents, and was well aware of how lonely not having their memory was. He had made a new family out of the Shepards, but there was still that part of him deep inside that ached at the mystery of his birth. There was a change for him to keep this girl from carrying that same emptiness in her heart. He couldn’t exactly walk away from that when he knew he could do something.

“This is going to complicate things.” Robin looked back to the door that stood between them and the outside of the stables where all of the sounds of battle seemed to be coming from.

Noire felt her fingers twitch slightly inside of Robin’s grasp, “Does…Does that mean…?” She could hardly believe that anything about her story had been able to sway the tactician into helping her.

Robin brought the hand wrapped around the bronze sword up, gently pressing against the door to push it open ever so slowly, “You can get us to wherever Ezra keeps his trophies right?”

The question sent a shiver down Noire’s spine. She didn’t really know much about the layout of the bandit camp. She had been in a different state when she had been captured and thrown into the stables. If she was forced to guess, Ezra probably kept any of his trophies close at hand to discourage the other bandits from stealing them from him. That wasn’t exactly promising though. Having to charge up to the bandit leader in order to demand the return of their things was probably not high up on the list of intelligent plans.

“He-“ The girl paused, biting her lip out of anxiety and frustration with herself, “He keeps them in the b-big b-building.” She guessed. It wasn’t exactly a lie if that was where she thought they’d find their things. It made the most sense out of all of the options.

Robin pushed open the door, looking out over the foggy field that stood between them and the cover of the forest. It would be so much easier to just bolt across that open space and leave all of this behind. His mental version of Tharja who had chastised him for being too kind was correct. Going after a handful of trinkets was definitely the sort of decision that the real Tharja would have tried to protect him from making.

The larger building, their new target destination, was lit by the eerie glow of magical energy. The startled cries of fighters came from it, but so far, none of the warriors themselves seemed to be making their way past its walls. Neither of those things translated to them having an easy time on this grand quest. At least the fact that no one was running out of the building meant that they were probably safe to sneak over there.

The strategist narrowed his eyes, crouching down slightly in an attempt to hide his silhouette in the cold rolling fog that hugged the buildings, “Alright. Stick to my back.” He let go of the girl’s hand so that he didn’t accidentally pull her over and ducked into the fog.

Crossing from one building to the next proved to be less dangerous than Robin had been expecting. There were no archers taking shots at them from windows or rooftops. There were no wandering bandits that accidentally ran into them and chose to make a stand. None of the attacking Plegians noticed them, or if they did, they didn’t seem to care. Most of the actual fighting seemed to be contained inside of the building that they were approaching. Robin wasn’t looking forward to having to go inside, but getting there was easy.

Robin pressed himself up close to the wall of the larger building. The cold raindrops bit at his skin when they struck his face. All of this unpleasant weather had left the old stone of the building wet and slick to the touch. The strategist took advantage of this situation, sliding his body along the wall to keep the chances that he’d be exposed low. The sounds of the battle inside were finally starting to subside, which was promising, since it probably meant that there were less people to fight now.

Noire followed Robin closely, her fingers curled into a tight fist around part of the strategist’s dark robes. Her body still shivered, partly from the bitter raindrops, partly from the intense unease that ruled her life. She wasn’t sure why she was doing this anymore. What exactly was she expecting to do if things came to a fight? She wasn’t even carrying a weapon.

The white-haired girl had always been a weak and timid girl, not fit for battle. When she had been given a chance to run away from all of the horrors of her daily life, she had seen it as a blessing. She had jumped at the opportunity to close her eyes to the terrors of armies of the dead and dark god monsters. When she had opened her eyes, she had found herself in a world that was had quickly proven to be only marginally better. She had been captured by bandits, stripped of her belongings, and stuffed into a small cell to wait for the end of her unfortunate fate. It was terrible, but at least she hadn’t been expected to fight.

Now Noire found herself in the position where the possibility of having to fight was as strong as ever. She had been saved, just like she had hoped she would be, and now her saviour was taking her to reclaim her lost possessions. It should have been a happy moment. Instead she was filled with nothing but the dread of battle. How would she go on if she found herself surrounded by the dark and familiar spectre of death?

Robin brought his hand up, brushing his fingertips over a sharp edge of stone. The stone end, replaced by a large section of wood. This likely had been where larger shipments were brought into this trading post. The design spoke to it once being a great door that had likely also been made of wood. This wall felt like it had the same craftsmanship as the doors to the cells in the stable. If Robin had to guess, the large opening didn’t serve the bandits so they had chosen to build themselves a wall to protect them from the elements and fortify their base.

The strategist looked further down the length of the wall. Once they got past this wooden barrier there appeared to be another door. Robin smiled and looked back to the girl who was holding onto his robe before nodding to his intended point of ingress. If no one was running out of that door it would serve as their perfect entry route. If they were lucky they could sneak in the back, grab their things, and get back out again before they met any trouble.

As the strategist made to dart for the door, the wooden wall of the fortress exploded into a shower of splinters.

oOoOo

Tharja narrowed her eyes as Morgan ran off to deal with the small group that was running from the fortress. If that whole situation proved to be a trap, that would serve the raven-haired girl right for being soft. The world was not kind, and she needed to learn that the only way to survive it was by looking out for yourself. Leaving your heart open to strangers was a fool’s gambit. Leaving your heart open to anyone just invited in the pain of loss. The raven-haired girl would learn soon enough. In the end, people would just hurt you.

Continuing her slow march forward, the dark witch flipped open her tome, drawing her fingertips over its pages. Her eyes burned like coals as she glared at the wall that stood before her. Dark tendrils of magical energy danced up her fingers, swirling into a twisted ball of malice and hate in her palm. The locating spell told her that she’d find what she looked for just ahead. The wall of the ruined building stood between her and the closure that she needed. It would not stand in her way for long.

With a sickening boom the ball of blackness in Tharja’s hand shot forward to collide with the unfeeling stone wall. Cracks shot across its surface, a frightening spiderweb of destruction spread across a section of the wall large enough for a person to pass through it. The stones that made up the wall were ground into pebbles and dust under the unrelenting force of Tharja’s rage-fuelled magic. The air was filled with thick clouds of broken stone that for a moment even stole the moisture out of the rainy atmosphere around the witch.

Coughing and startled cries came from beyond the clouds of stone dust that still hung in the air. Whoever had been taking shelter within the ruined outpost had likely not been expecting an attack at all, let alone one of this magnitude. Caught off guard they stumbled around their home base, rubbing at their eyes and choking on the thick dust. None of them were ready to attack the dark witch as she climbed through the rubble that had once been a wall, letting her dark eyes scan the inside of the room for her target.

All the witch could see through the fog of stone were the huddled silhouettes of its occupants. Her lips curled into a dissatisfied frown at how this wall was still getting in her way, even if it wasn’t a wall anymore. Her fingertip flashed over a line of runes in her tome, pulling the dark energy from its pages and into herself. She brought her fingers up, pressing her middle finger to her thumb and collecting the magic there. With a quick snap of her finger, the energy shot through the air, clearing the air between her and where her locator spell was taking her.

In a flash, most of the room was revealed to the dark sorceress. Bandits had scrambled to either side of the room, hugging tight to the walls and giving Tharja a wide birth. Sitting back by a wooden wall covered in banners and furs was a thin man sitting in a chair. The chair had been adorned with an assortment of decorations, clearly an attempt to make it look more ostentatious. All Tharja could see was another small man making a desperate attempt to appear as something grand.

The uneasy whispers spread throughout the room as Tharja crossed the line of debris.

“Ain’t that one o’ them dark mage types?”

“Yeah, yew c’n tell ‘cause th’ outfit leave nuthin’ to the imagination.”

“I dunno ‘bout that. I’m imaginin’ a whole lot.”

None of these comments even merited Tharja’s attention. She had heard it all before. These bandit barbarians said such things every time they saw her in battle. Before that she had heard some of the soldiers in the Shepards whispering things about the dark mage uniform. Even during her her time in Plegia whispered rumours rumours about heated encounters with lusty sorceresses were the norm. Men were always so enveloped in their lecherous thoughts that they didn’t even notice when she prepared an attack.

Simple bandits were hardly a threat to a dark mage. Tharja had seen that their obscene imaginings were not the only common thread among bandits. They also tended to harbour a deep cowardice that brought them together. They were superstitious, frightened of dark magics. They were like the children that Tharja would frighten when she went into town. They were physically strong, and if they attacked together, the dark sorceress would likely be in trouble. She had earned her safety from them with the brutal show of force that was the spell that knocked down the wall. They were all too terrified of magic to press their strength advantage.

Instead of wasting any of her attention on cowardly warriors, Tharja focused her dark eyes on the man in the chair. While all of his underlings were cowering in fear, whispering about their lewd desires, the man in the chair seemed calm and collected. He met her glare with his own, his lips curling up into the smug smile of someone who thought they had a winning hand to play.

“You know breaking down my wall is only going to make the price go up.” The bandit leader chuckled softly, slowly tracing his fingertips over a brass ring that sat around his finger, “It’s going to take more than a little destruction to intimidate Ezra and his wolf pack.” The other bandits attempted to muster confident cheers at that.

Tharja narrowed her eyes as she focused on the simple brass ring that Ezra was spinning on his finger. It was impossible not to recognize the thing. She still remembered having a heated argument with Robin about how the token he had chosen to symbolize their love was so cheap. He had said something intelligent about it, something to soothe her anger for a minute. She couldn’t remember it clearly anymore. Even the darkness of the argument had been stolen from her, tainted by the foul touch of these bandits.

Another low chuckle slipped past Ezra’s lips as he brought his hands up in a wide gesture, “Now I’m not unreasonable. Lets say you double-”

“That doesn’t belong to you.” Tharja’s voice was barely above a whisper, but cut through the air like a knife. She had brought her hand up, pointing an accusatory fingertip at the brass ring on Ezra’s finger.

The bandit leader raised an eyebrow before turning his attention to where she was pointing, “Oh?” Taking note of the ring her turned back to her, his lips forming a sinister grin, “Ah! You mean my latest trophy.” He held his hand forward making a show of displaying the ring, “It became mine the moment I took it. It’s the law of nature that the strong take what they want. Food, treasures, even people, all mine because I’m stronger.”

The dark sorceress tilted her head to the side, her empty eyes focused only on the ring on Ezra’s finger. He didn’t even have the decency to deny that he had stolen it. Instead he talked about how this was normal, how if you were strong you could just take. You could take someone’s ring. You could take someone’s life. You could take someone’s happiness. He wasn’t a man. He was an animal. Tharja’s lips twisted into a cruel smile. She could be an animal too.

“Heh…I see.” Tharja could still feel the locator spell drawing her towards the bandit leader and his stolen treasure. Her eyes flickered with the embers of madness as she slowly turned her accusatory point into a beckoning open palm, “In that case, it’s mine.”

A spark of dark energy shot through the room. It was like a lightning bolt made out of the the very absence of light. The spell had gone off faster than anyone could have dreamed of blocking or defending against it. By the time anyone in the room even knew that casting had begun the danger had already passed. As Tharja turned her hand again she revealed the small brass ring clutched between her thumb and forefinger. Falling from her grasp was the bloody remnants of the finger that it had been wrapped around moments ago.

Burning daggers of pain shot up Ezra’s arm as his body violently mourned its loss. He stuffed his bleeding hand into his shirt, gripping tightly at it with his other hand in hopes of staunching the bleeding. He couldn’t imagine how this had happened. He hadn’t even seen the woman draw a spell from her tome? He ground his teeth together trying to bite through the pain and keep his mind sharp. Had she already prepared such a devastating spell before she even appeared before him? What kind of monster was this!?

“Get her!” The bandit leader shrieked to his men. Even if she was the Plegian that he was meant to deal with, he couldn’t let this stand! No one could come into his house and attack him like that!

The air around Tharja crackled with a dark and menacing energy. The fear of the dark magics burned anew in most of the bandits, but it was placed on a scale against a fear of their leader. Not all of the scales tipped in Tharja’s favour. Leaving before this turned into a bloody battle had become an impossibility. Tharja hid her unease behind a mask of disinterest, closing her fingers around the ring in her palm and taking a neutral stance.

“So brave, barking order from your chair.” Tharja took a step forward, doing her best to ignore the handful of bandits that had taken up axes, “I thought the strong did what they wanted.”

Ezra’s face twisted with outrage and pain, but his lips stayed curled into that same sadistic smile, “You’re right, missy.” He let out a manic chuckle as he cradled his wounded appendage, “No need to keep this one unspoiled! Show her the law of the wild boys! Teach her who’s strongest!” A flash of his dark and sadistic nature danced in his eyes, “Teach her that we take what we want!”

The skin on the back of Tharja’s neck began to tingle as she became aware of the danger she was in. A flash of a sickening memory entered her mind. She remembered being weak and wounded. She remembered the foul taste of defeat and helplessness as an opponent who was physically stronger stood over her. She remembered the way that her soul had cried out for a saviour, and how light she had felt when that saviour had arrived.

That wasn’t how this would play out. No one was going to come to her rescue this time. Even the raven-haired girl who had followed her so far wouldn’t be coming to her rescue. She saw it in the other girl’s eyes. When confronted with the last few steps down the path of revenge, Morgan had turned away, frightened of what she would become. The girl didn’t have the stomach for dealing with a group of bandits, and had likely already decided that leading those civilians to safety was her new mission.

Revenge was a poison. Tharja understood that all too well when she had broken down the wall. She knew that none of the outcomes were good. Even if everything had played out exactly according to plan, the best scenario was that she had a hollow token to hold in the palm of her hand. Now she was surrounded by monstrous brutes who had foul intentions for her. Her body ached from days without sleep, her muscles screaming their displeasure at being so over used, and submitted to such tortures as the freezing rain. With the ring in her hand she had taken a moment to savour her victory, and all of the time since Robin had left had started catching up to her.

Tharja’s mind ran through what she could do. She could fight and scratch with what little strength she had left. With her spells, she’d probably manage to kill a few of the bandits that were about to attack her. Maybe she could run away when they all backed up again. How far would she get on her rubbery tired legs before they caught her again? Would she have succeeded in doing anything other than stoking the fires of their rage? What if she didn’t manage to do any lasting damage? Then she’d just be surrounded by a group of bandits that didn’t even fear her anymore.

In the end, it seemed like fighting took her the same route that simply surrendering would. The bandits would grab her. They’d push her down onto the dirty floor at Ezra’s feet. Lecherous hands would grab at her curves and pull at her battle cloth. They’d hold her down low before their leader, and then they’d give in to their sinister desires. They’d play out those twisted fantasies that they had been whispering to each other. They’d defile her over and over again.

The dark sorceress knew that her path likely always led to her utter destruction. Maybe she had even hoped for it. Some sort of punishment for failing to protect the man she loved. She hadn’t really let herself imagine much beyond a grizzly death. Of course whoever defeated her was going to torture her, but she had imagined knives, and hooks. The humiliation that she faced now was something that she hadn’t even thought of. No. That was a lie. What she imagined was in store now was something that she had been forcing herself not to think of.

‘All of your failures brought you here.’ The dark voice returned, whispering in Tharja’s ear, ‘Failing to open up to the Shepards meant you were alone when that bandit attacked you. You failed in your duty to protect Robin as his companion. Even as his wife, you failed to give him a child. Now you’ve failed as a strategist, wearing yourself out before a fight. As a sorceress you should have the power to fight your way out of this, but you’re even a failure at that.’

For Tharja, time had come to a stop, her mind tormenting her with these dark whispers. She remembered every failure, still tasted every bitter defeat. There had been a moment that it had felt like maybe she had turned things around. For a brief moment with Robin, she felt like she had finally succeeded at something. Even that had been just the foundation on which she could build another failure. She hadn’t been able to save her relationship with Robin, and that success broke apart, slipping through her fingers like sand.

‘You were useless as a fighter, a friend, a witch, and a wife. You’ve only ever been good at being one thing. Isn’t that the real reason you put yourself in this dire situation?’ The dark voice in her head chuckled, ‘They’ll punish you by putting you in your proper place. You can pretend that you didn’t know this would happen, or that you won’t enjoy it, but we know better. You’ll moan like a whore when they take you, because that’s the only thing you’ve ever been good at.’

Tharja grit her teeth, pushing her darker thoughts to the back of her mind as the world started moving again. She moved with all of the speed left in her body, her every muscle screaming with pain as she demanded more from them. The witch pressed her fingertip to the open surface of the tome, flicking a bolt of dark magical energy at a Bandit who was about to grapple her on her side. With another twist and flick a second bolt of darkness struck down a bandit on the other side. She took a step forward, biting back the aches that ran through her legs and waved her hand before her as if to cast away her pursuers with the simple gesture.

For an outside observer, it would have seemed like all of the magic had gone off at once. A jagged ethereal dagger of darkness shot through the air, slicing through the bandit who had been about to grab her, leaving a spray of blood in its wake. The second spell cloaked the witch like a miasma before firing off a spear-like tentacle, slicing the other bandit’s neck. The final motion caused the miasma to bubble up and burst, pushing all of the remaining bandits back, and giving Tharja the space she needed to advance on Ezra.

Surely there was a part of Tharja that thought that she deserved the punishment of complete humiliation. That was something that the witch was going to have to deal with when all of this was over. In order to deal with that, she needed to avoid the dark fate that was so close. The best way to keep all of the bandits away from her was to remove their leader from the equation. They had been afraid to look at her before he had started barking orders.

Tharja placed her palm flat against the tome as she marched forward, “You don’t seem so strong to me.” She pulled back her palm, thrusting it forward to unleash a devastating wave of force on the thin bandit leader.

The throne toppled out of the way, helpless to stand in the face of Tharja’s magic. The man was thrust backwards into the furs and flags, and the wooden wall beyond them. The wood cracked and buckled as it tried to retreat from the wave, finally exploding into freedom under the force of the bandit being thrust into it. A hazy smoke of shattered wood and expended magic hung in the air.

Tharja continued her march forward. If she stopped now, she wasn’t sure she’d be able to get herself going again. She pulled another bolt of dark energy out of the tome, feeling the pages begin to crumble without the magic to hold them together. She just had to utterly destroy the leader. Having a tome after she finished didn’t matter. Either the rest of the bandits would flee once she removed the head, or they wouldn’t, and even with the tome she lacked the strength to fight them. The energy in her hand crackled as she prepared for her gruesome strike.

“Tharja?”

The voice was familiar, breaking her concentration for a moment. It was a voice that she thought she wasn’t going to hear again, so how was it here? How was she hearing it? She couldn’t bring herself to look. If she looked she’d have to stop. If this was all some sort of trick from her dark shadow, then giving in meant accepting the horrible fate that she was struggling again. She felt her body shudder under the strain of staying up, and without thinking of the possible consequences turned her eyes to the source of the voice.

Robin stood in a defensive position, one arm raised to shield his face from the burst of shrapnel that had so recently been a wall. In his hand he held a chipped and beaten bronze sword, far too simple a weapon for him. Still, even ill-equipped, the strategist looked like some hero out of a legend to Tharja. Somehow he had come back from the dead. Somehow, in this final moment, he had appeared before her.

The witch turned her dark eyes slowly, taking in the cowering form of the white-haired girl behind him, “Ah…I see now…” It all made sense. Of course Robin hadn’t died. He had just found this girl and fallen victim to his based instincts. That explained Robin’s mysterious daughter from the future as well, “This must be the mother…”

“M-Mother?” The white-haired girl let the word out in a whisper as she took a tentative peek over Robin’s shoulder.

Robin stared at Tharja, a shiver running down his spine. Something didn’t seem right about her, “Tharja, I don’t think-”

“I’m no fool, Robin.” Tharja cut him off, slowly raising her hand to point a crackling finger at the girl, “Out of the way. I’m going to rid you of your new toy.”

Robin continued to make himself a shield for the girl, but stopped when Noire shouted from behind him, “I’m n-n-not his t-t-toy!” Noire was shocked at her own shout. She felt her chest heave from the force of it and looked up at Tharja from behind tearful eyes, “I’m his d-d-daughter!” She did her best to glare at Tharja, tears still threatening to roll down her cheeks, “Yours too!”

Tharja felt her heart stop, her eyes going wide at the girl’s words. What had she just said? A daughter? They hadn’t really advertised the existence of these future children to the outside world. If this was a bluff, how had she ever heard about it? No…the way she said it seemed too genuine. If it was true, that meant…

“Wait, what?” Robin turned his eyes back to the white-haired girl. He couldn’t deny that there had been something mysterious about her that made him want to protect her, but this? Had his paternal instincts known all along, and that was why he had gone this far? He let the arm holding the bronze sword fall to his side, more concerned about the new revelations than the danger that they might be in.

The witch felt a small smile claim her lips as she considered the weight of what she had just learned. She slowly turned her head, ready to finish executing Ezra to earn herself the time she needed to properly absorb this news. It seemed that somewhere in the confusion the bandit leader had fled, leaving the witch with no more dangers to face. She slowly closed her eyes, giving in to the exhaustion and letting her body crumple to the ground.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hahaha! Now the tale is finally drawing to its conclusion. All that remains is the beautiful bow of a happy ending in our next chapter (I'm 99.9% sure the next chapter is the last one for Hex On Fate).
> 
> Will Robin and his family survive the journey that brings them back to the Shepards? Will Tharja recover from taxing herself so hard? Are the bandits lying in wait, ready to pounce, kill Robin, and then unleash their lecherous desires on the helpless females of his family? If the party survives the journey back, what sort of punishment is in store for Tharja after freeing Morgan and slipping away? Speaking of Morgan, where did she go after saving those ex-slaves? Tune in next time! Same bat-time! Same bat-channel!


	8. A Hex Called Patience

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Having returned from their grand adventure at the trading post, our heroes struggle to conquer their last lingering doubts, and return things back to a sense of normalcy. With all of the cards revealed, this round of fate's twisted game comes to a close.

The rowdy atmosphere of the strategy tent had taken a while to die down. While some members of the Shepards had suggested that Tharja had clearly overstepped by releasing the girl who claimed to be Robin’s child, it was hard to argue with her results. The fact that Tharja had brought back anything was cause for celebration. The fact that Robin was still alive was nothing short of a miracle. After some discussion, even the members of the Shepards that still disliked and feared the witch were forced to admit that things had turned out well.

Robin smiled weakly as he looked at the maps stretched out over the table before him. It looked like Chrom had been making decisions that wouldn’t take the Shepards too far away. He’d never admit to actively having done anything to keep them there, but Robin knew he had done it, even if it was subconsciously. Chrom had been waiting for Tharja to come back, and clearly been hoping that she’d bring the strategist back with her.

As far as handing out achievements went, Morgan was the real winner when it came to getting them back. On her quest to bring the freed slaves to safety she had kept her eyes open for anything that she could use to their advantage. Her lucky break had come in the form of a redheaded merchant with an oddly familiar face. After some quick negotiations, and a few dropped names, Morgan had rented a section of the merchant’s wagon. She wrote it off as just lucky happenstance that the merchant just happened to know how to catch up with the Shepards.

In actuality, the merchant was a member of the family of Annas. They had a large merchant network run entirely by the siblings who were visual duplicates of each other. In a time when no one else in the world would have been able to find the Shepards, an Anna would have been able to do it. The Annas knew the Shepards as good customers, and were willing to take the extra steps to keep their loyalty. It also helped that there had never been an Anna who could turn down a chance at easy coin.

Robin, carrying the exhausted Tharja, had been happy to ride in the wagon rather than wander aimlessly across the map. It had been a welcome rest after an exhausting adventure. Discovering that in the time that he had been away from the Shepards he had gone from zero future children to two had been a bit of a shock. It had given Robin a bit to think about, but it hadn’t really been what he would call ‘unwelcome’.

At the moment, the strategist was thinking about something that Morgan had said to him. When she had first seen him she had commented about how the magic of the portal had clearly done wonders for him. Apparently, when she had last seen him he had seemed much older. On the surface, Robin found it comforting to know that he had survived into whatever future Morgan came from. On further thought, the strategist was concerned with the fact that it meant he had somehow survived when the rest of the Shepards hadn’t.

A lot of the details around Morgan had given Robin a cause for further thought. At first Robin had wondered if the dark-haired girl really was from the future. A few questions to Noire had revealed that the girl was from the future, and was indeed the product of his union with Tharja. Noire had been reluctant to talk any more about the future that she had come from. Robin hadn’t pushed because from what all of the future children had said it had been a dark affair. He wasn’t sure what he reluctance meant anymore.

One of the things that Robin was considering was that the jump through time had taken an unknown toll on all of the future children. It was possible that the reason none of them wanted to talk too much about the future was because they all had varying degrees of this amnesia. Maybe the reason Cynthia had been taken advantage of was because there were gaps in her memory. Maybe the reason they had found Odin wandering around aimlessly was because he didn’t remember where he was supposed to go. Lucina might have been holding back information about their future because she really didn’t know.

Robin let out a soft sigh and closed his eyes. Every time he tried to think about anything involved in what they had seen of time-travel, it felt like he was trying to fold his brain. If thinking about it caused him this much confusion, perhaps actually knowing the secrets of how it worked by doing it caused spotty memory. Maybe it was just some god of time making an attempt to keep things in the order that they were supposed to be in.

For now, Robin had concerns that went beyond whether or not the future children were keeping things from him. On their journey in the mobile merchant stand, Tharja had eventually woken up. This would have been fine, but the witch had ended up having very little to say about anything. Robin, being familiar with the concept of an angry woman had recognized that he was likely in a spot of trouble. It wasn’t entirely unreasonable, given everything that had happened, and everything that Tharja had to have gone through.

It had been Robin’s plan to take some time to talk it out with his wife when they got back to camp. He had planned to take her to the privacy of their shared tent and have a nice, reasonable conversation. She’d still be angry, and he’d remind her that he was just happy to have returned to her. By the end of the night she’d have accepted his apology, but probably also forced terms on him that meant that they were inseparable, at least for a while. He’d accept the terms and probably avoid battle for a while to placate her worries, and everything would be smoothed over.

What had actually happened was that the moment they caught up with the Shepards again, a party had begun. Apparently, skipping parties to celebrate the fact that you weren’t actually dead was a social faux pas. There had been drinks, merriment, and a large number of people. All of the activity had clearly not agreed with Tharja, and she had melted into the background, vanishing before he could talk to her.

Now the party was over and everyone had headed off to their personal tents. The new recruits had been assigned new tents, freshly purchased from the Anna that had served as their taxi. All of the excitement was over, and Robin found himself sitting alone in the abandoned strategy tent. Early in his marriage, when Robin had realized how ravenous Tharja could be, he had considered hiding out in the strategy tent to get some rest. Tonight the strategist preferred the flickering light of the strategy tent’s lanterns to the icy reception he expected if he should return to the tent he shared with Tharja.

Robin let out a long sigh, letting his head fall back on the chair. His intention had been to stare at the roof of the tent and imagine that he could see the stars through the material. What happened instead was he found himself looking up into the expressionless face, and cold eyes of his wife. He swallowed the lump in his throat, realizing that the trouble he had been trying to avoid had come to find him.

“Ah. I was just about to pack it in for the night.” The strategist found himself lying immediately. He hadn’t even begun to consider how to start this conversation. He had hoped to at least have a vague plan of how to talk himself out of this disaster.

Tharja said nothing, turning her eyes to the table and slowly moving around the chair. Her movement ended when she was leaning back against the edge of the table in front of him, her dark eyes locked on him. He felt like she was looking at more than just him. It felt like those eyes were burning down to his very soul. He felt a cold sweat on the back of his neck as he tried to calculate the possibility that after saving him from bandits she would do him harm to make a point.

“Um…So you see…” Robin started, trying to think of a way to buy himself time to plan, “Maybe we should go back to our tent.” He moved to get out of the chair.

As Robin went to get up, Tharja raised her leg, hooking the heel against the side of the seat to block his escape. Her elbows locked as she used her arms to lift herself onto the edge of the table, her free leg hanging slightly off the ground. Despite the danger, Robin had to admit that the sight was rather arousing. Before he had earned Tharja’s ire, this would have probably been the opening move in one of their sensual games.

The strategist bit his bottom lip, trying to force those thoughts out of his mind to avoid any danger related to them, “So these children from the future sure are interesting, aren’t they?” He could feel his brain go into panic mode as he started to ramble, “It makes me wonder if anything that we do really would change their pasts, you know?”

In a normal argument, this was the part where Robin would have expected Tharja to say something back. In the few arguments that they had, this would be the part where she told him why she was angry. In this particular case, he was fairly certain that he knew why she was angry, but he’d been hoping that she’d steer the conversation in that direction. Instead the witch had chosen to continue to stare at him, quietly listening to his manic rambling.

“I mean, what if we did change something so they didn’t need to come back? How would they still be here?” He chuckled weakly hoping with everything that he had that Tharja would at least talk to him, “As an example, what if one of us had died?” He winced, immediately regretting that he had let that slip out, “Of course that never would have happened, but what if we never had sex again and didn’t conceive them.” Given the situation, that seemed like the more likely scenario.

“Interesting.” Tharja finally responded, breaking her silence, “That would create something of a paradox.” Her voice contained a dangerous calm as she stared at her husband.

Robin nodded, eager to continue this trend where they were agreeing with each other, “Right? What would happen? Would the stop existing? If they did, would we still remember that they had ever existed?”

The witch let out a long sigh and leaned further back over the table, “Well, that is an interesting little thought experiment.” Arcing her body back to stretch herself over the desk had done a brilliant job of accentuating all of Tharja’s curves, “So that’s what you’ve been thinking about in here then.”

Robin shuddered again, considering that Tharja might just be putting on a show of being agreeable, waiting for him to lower his guard. If that was the case, the witch was smart enough to know that he was just been rambling in an attempt to save himself. This was a different kind of angry Tharja than he was used to. Maybe if he went back on it and said that he had been trying to think of how to apologize to her, Tharja would be more willing to forgive him.

“Such a shame that you didn’t marry someone else.” Tharja looked down the length of her body at her frightened husband, “Perhaps someone else would have let you test your theory.”

The strategist continued speaking at a fevered pace, his mind still trying to devise a way to avoid the witch’s wrath, “Well, yes, but if our memories of them also vanished, then there’d be no way to know the result. It’s possible that-”

A low growl from Tharja cut off the strategist’s rambling. She pushed her body back up leaning forward to glare into the eyes of the strategist, “I’ve tried to be patient.” Her fingers squeezed the edge of the table har enough that the wood let out a groan from the strain, “When they took you away for the party, I indulged them and waited for it to finish.” Her voice was cold enough to freeze Robin’s blood in his veins, “While I waited in our tent I busied myself, cleaning your ring.” She brought one of her hands up, and with a snap of her finger, the simple brass band was in her palm, “When you still didn’t return, I was forced to come looking for you.”

Robin swallowed the lump in his throat. Somehow a simple ‘I’m sorry’ didn’t seem like it was going to cover it. He had put off having this discussion long enough that the fact he had put it off was its own problem. It was like a snowball rolling down a hill. The longer he had left it the larger it had become, and the harder it would be to stop.

With another snap of her fingers, the brass band vanished, and with a flash of her dark magics, reappeared around Robin’s finger, “You left on a mission, and I waited.” She brought her hands forward, wrapping her fingers around the arms of Robin’s chair, leaning further, and causing him to shrink down into his seat, “Then you disappeared and I had to wait while I looked for you.” She shifted her weight onto her left arm, bringing up her right for a purpose that Robin wasn’t brave enough to keep his eyes open for, “After I rescued you and brought you back to the camp, you expect me to keep waiting?”

Feeling a tugging at his waist, Robin opened his eyes, confused about what was going on. His eyes were greeted with the vision of Tharja leaning forward, gently chewing on her bottom lip as she focused on her work. Her work appeared to consist of struggling with Robin’s belt with one hand while supporting herself with the other. The fact that she wasn’t digging around in his chest with her razor-sharp nails was such a shock to Robin that he was not quite sure how to react.

“What are you doing?” Robin murmured the question that seemed innocent enough.

Tharja growled her response, frustrated that she had to explain something so simple, “I’m taking off your belt.”

A terrifying thought that perhaps Tharja meant to dismember him ran through Robin’s mind, “Why?”

After another growl at how difficult this was proving to be with only one hand, Tharja responded curtly, “Because I’ve run our of patience waiting for you to take the initiative, and it’s clear that I’m going to have to fuck you on your chair until it breaks as a punishment.”

Robin was left blinking for a moment as his brain struggled to put the pieces together, “But we’re in the strategy tent…and I quite like this chair.”

Tharja cast Robin a scowl, “If you cared about privacy you should have returned to our tent immediately.” She put her attention back into uselessly fumbling at Robin’s belt, “As for your chair, it is a casualty of our earlier deal.”

Robin was suddenly struck by the realization that Tharja had not been angry at him. Well, that probably wasn’t entirely true. She was likely still angry with him, but she had come with something else in mind. They had both returned safely from their mission. He had forgotten about the deal in all of the excitement of being captured and presumed dead. To erase Tharja’s worry over missing children from the future. Technically, both of them had now returned from successful missions.

The strategist pushed himself to his feet, pulling Tharja into his chest when she failed to back away in time. With one hand he swept away the markers on the map behind Tharja, while the other held tight to her waist, trapping her on the edge of the desk. The shock of the sudden movement had caused Tharja to momentarily give up on the battle against Robin’s belt, instead cupping her hands on the edge of the desk to support herself again. Her lips formed a sour frown as she glared at Robin with impatient eyes.

Raising an eyebrow, Robin spoke, barely above a whisper, “I suspect belts are easier if you use both hands.” He made a valiant attempt at a seductive smile.

With another soft growl, the witch grabbed onto Robin’s belt, “Don’t think that your charm will be enough to make me forgive you.” In releasing the belt from its clasp, she purposely pulled harder than was necessary.

Robin nodded, a soft chuckle escaping his lips, “No?” He brought his hand up slowly, tracing his fingertips under the edge of the metal collar of her cape, “Here I thought that my charm was your one weakness.” His eyes followed his fingertips as they slowly left the metal collar taking meandering trails over the area between the collar and the valley of her breasts.

Tharja bit her lip, fighting back the urge to lean her body into Robin’s tortuously sweet touch. Her fingers squeezed tightly at the opened ends of his belt, as she struggled to maintain her stern expression, “I’m still mad at you.” She spoke the words, partly to make her stance clear, and partly in an attempt to remind herself of her own feelings, “Leaving your saviour alone for so long is too cruel…”

The strategist nodded, tracing lazy circles over Tharja’s skin, “It was, wasn’t it?” He slowly trailed his fingertips down over the expanse of skin left exposed between the collar of her cape and the top of her mage armour, “That was clearly unforgivable of me.”

A shudder ran through Tharja’s body as Robin’s fingers continued to explore her skin. She grit her teeth trying to hide it from the man who continued to draw out her agony and test her patience. She brought a shaky hand up, placing her palm against Robin’s chest and giving him a weak push, “If you understand, sit down and take your punishment.”

Robin remained unfazed by the weak push that had clearly not been intended to actually move him. His fingertip catching on the low edge of the top of Tharja’s mage-cloth between her breasts, “You did a few things that made me angry too, you know.”

Tharja narrowed her eyes dangerously, the palm against Robin’s chest curling into a claw. How dare he say that anything she had done was wrong! She had worried about him endlessly when he was gone. While the rest of the Shepards had given up all hope of finding him, she had been the only one willing to keep searching. She had been the one to come up with the spell that had tracked him down. She had saved him! He had **nothing** to complain about.

The strategist winced as Tharja’s sharp nails attempted to bite through the thin fabric of his shirt. Still, he didn’t back down from his position, “I was worried about you too, you know.” His finger attempted to journey further down, gently tugging at the tight armour of the dark mage, “I had nightmares about what those bandits would have done to you if they caught you and you were _too tired to fight back_.” Given that she had collapsed after finding him, if her fight had continued those nightmares could have become a reality.

The witch’s fingers trembled as she struggled between a prideful anger, and the warm sensation knowing Robin had been worried for her. She decided that she had to stand strong. She flattened her palm against Robin’s chest, giving him another push, slightly less gentle this time. His concern for her had probably been real. That was sweet. It didn’t address the reason she was angry. Her patience had already been stretched thin, and this debate was only aggravating it further.

“Sit down.” Tharja mustered her most commanding voice.

The push had turned Robin slightly, but still not been enough to make him take a step back. He shook his head slowly, “How would you have fought off those bandits if after all that rest you can’t even make me sit?”

Tharja scowled, letting the belt slip out of the hand that still held it. She brought both her hands up and pushed hard against Robin’s chest. It felt like she was pushing against a solid wall. Robin stood firm, and the force of Tharja’s push instead caused her to lose her balance. She tumbled back towards the desk, sprawled flat over the maps that cluttered its smooth surface. Sure her balance had been impaired with her legs dangling helplessly over the edge of the desk, but it was startling to think that she had really become that week.

Robin slowly drew the hand that was still resting at the witch’s hip down over the outside of her thigh, “Honestly…You imagined you had enough strength left in these legs to break my chair?” His other hand slid down Tharja’s body, his palm and fingertips trailing a sinful dance over the woman’s flat stomach, “Acting tough when you’re too tired to fight back is dangerous. If someone calls your bluff it leaves you at their mercy.”

Before being captured by the bandits, Robin had considered himself fairly proficient in the magic used to remove the thin barrier of Tharja’s mage-cloth. While he had been sitting in his cell he had nothing but time to plan his escape, and to practice the skill. His palm fell flat over the Tharja’s navel. With a gentle application of magic, the sheer material that offered protection from offensive magic shed itself from the woman’s body.

With the sheer material of the battle-cloth pooling on the floor beneath her feet, Tharja’s pale skin was exposed to the cool air. Only the dark top and the ornamental skirt were left to protect her decency. The hand on Tharja’s let slid further, stopping at the gold band above her knee, and lifting her leg to make it harder for her to right herself. The hand that had just dispelled her mage-cloth, busied itself with the metal band of the skirt, toying with what remained of her dark mage regalia.

“See? Totally helpless.” Robin smiled, feeling her body shudder with anticipation any time his fingertips brushed her skin.

Under normal circumstances, Tharja might have played into a game about her being helpless. This time, it seemed more like a genuine critique. Even with the dark whispers taunting her with her failures, Tharja’s pride would not let her take this slight lying down. The witch slipped her elbows behind her, propping herself up as best as she could, “I’m far from helpless. I could- Nghunnn!”

Tharja threw her head back, gritting her teeth against a moan as Robin’s fingers explored the space below her skirt. While she had been waiting in her tent for Robin’s visit, she had taken steps to _prepare_ herself. It seemed now that just a brush of Robin’s fingers over her core was more effective than anything she could do with her own. She bit her lip, her mind torn between the frustration she felt at Robin suggesting she was weak, and the drunken pleasure she felt every time he touched her.

Robin raised an eyebrow as he looked at the twitching mage, “I’ve barely even touched you, and you’re already…” He trailed off, chuckling softly, “You’re acting mad, but this makes me think you secretly enjoy being made to wait.” He took a moment to enjoy the way that his touch made her shiver, “Maybe I should go back to the tent, give you a chance to prove that these shaky knees still have enough strength to follow me.”

A fresh wave of panic shot through Tharja’s mind as she quickly tried to calculate her remaining strength reserves. Her knees had been a little shaky before she had even walked into the tent. After Robin’s gentle teasing, her whole body had betrayed her, forgetting any strength it had left in a quest to follow any wish that the strategist’s devilish fingers had for her.

“Don’t.” The word slipped past Tharja’s lips in a sultry gasp. She did her best to hook her leg around his hip to keep him from escaping. She suspected the only reason she was successful was because he was still holding her leg up. She did her best to glare at him while still letting out soft mewls of pleasure from his earlier grazing touch. When she spoke, her words were accompanied by sharp gasps for air, “Don’t you dare.”

Robin smiled softly, sliding the hand that no longer needed to support Tharja’s leg over her skin to rest on her hip again, “I’m not sure you’re in a position to make demands.” His fingers released the clasp on the metal belt of Tharja’s skirt before sliding the garment over her hips to join the battle-cloth on the ground.

Tharja felt her heart race, beating against her rips. She felt her chest heave, trying to fill her lungs with enough cool air to keep her from burning up. This was madness. Her blood felt like it was about to boil, and he was hardly even touching her anymore. He was actively threatening to leave her here, in unsatisfied agony and she had to stop herself from writhing and moaning at every syllable. Moments ago she had threatened to take charge so completely that her passion would destroy furniture. How had he tipped the scales so completely?

“I must admit, I’m curious.” The strategist smiled as he leaned over Tharja, the fingers that had dealt with her skirt trailing devious patterns over her side and stomach as they trailed upwards, “Do you have the energy to hop right up and follow me to the privacy of our tent?” His finger traced along the bottom edge of the top that still held Tharja’s breasts in check, “Do you think you’ll need some time to gather your energy before you can ever git off the desk?”

Robin released another fastener, freeing Tharja’s breasts, and letting the material of the top slide down the arms that still held her up, “I wonder if you’ll stop to put on your clothes before chasing me, or if you’ll be in such a rush that you won’t care about the possibility of someone seeing a flash of your skin beneath that cape.” He cupped her breast in his palm for a moment, gently drawing the pad of his thumb over her nipple before moving on. His fingers danced upwards again, slipping under the metal collar of her cape and pulling on it enough to pull the witch’s face closer to his, “Maybe I should take the cape too.”

With Robin once again supporting her body, Tharja took advantage of the energy that a burst of lust-filled adrenaline gave her. One hand pulled open the strategist’s trousers, leaving the other free to coil its fingers around his stiff member. Her legs wrapped themselves around his hips, and with the various points of grip that she had on him and his clothes, she pulled herself up and forward. Lining him up with her dripping entrance, she shifted her body forward, sheathing his length within the hot folds of her sex.

The witch choked out a deep moan, her lips twisting into a devious smile, “AAGGNNnn…” She felt her breath burning in her lungs as she clutched onto the strategist, “How do you plan to -mmmnnn- leave me now?” Perhaps she was exhausted, but she still had the strength to keep him from escaping, or even from withdrawing from her.

Robin felt his own knees threaten to buckle. He hadn’t expected Tharja to have enough strength to attempt something like this. The sudden assault on his senses when she claimed him had also taken him completely by surprise. It had only been thanks to his reflexes that he had been able to let go of Tharja’s collar and catch himself on the edge of the desk before they both fell. He felt his own chest heave as the witch squeezed his hips a little tighter with her legs.

“Haaah…” The strategist let out a long breath, “I wasn’t expecting a surprise attack.”

Tharja who had only avoided falling flat on the desk when Robin released her collar by catching herself with her elbows smiled darkly, “What _were_ you -mmmm- expecting? That I’d beg?” Her devious eyes watched Robin from beneath her bangs.

Robin smiled, struggling to keep himself upright as Tharja attempted to move her body against him, “I guess I was expecting you to try bargaining with me.” They had made so many deals before, it made sense. Honestly, his thoughts of the witch sliding off of the desk and onto her knees before him had been enticing, “I think I’d have settled for begging though.”

The witch licked her lips, picking up his meaning for the word ‘bargaining’. There would be time for that latter. For now, she tilted her head back, letting out a long and desperate moan, “Ooooh…Robin.” Her lips formed another devilish smile around her words, “I need you- mmmnn…” She shifted, attempting to thrust herself against him, “Take me -ah- Fuck me -mnnnn- Remind me that I’m yours.” 

Robin’s hips gave an involuntary thrust, causing the witch to let out a sound somewhere between a cry and a moan. He knew what she was doing. She was playing into it like a game, begging only now that she had claimed her prize. He had to fight to keep himself from driving forward. If he gave in now it would all be her complete victory. Worse, if he gave in now, those sinfully sweet words would transform into little more than broken moans and intelligible noises.

Tharja stopped holding herself up with her elbows, letting her body come to rest on the flat surface of the desk. Her fingers crept up, sliding over her stomach, trailing down towards the point where they were joined, “Ah…Robin, fill my belly with you seed…” She let out a soft moan as she felt him give another involuntary thrust, “I want to feel your essence -AHn- in every hidden place.” She shifted her hips, trying to pull him deeper into herself, “Don’t stop -ah- until you’ve spent every last drop.” She trailed her fingers up, cupping her breasts, “Coat me in it -mmmnnn- Keep going until I’m just a sticky mess.”

If she was being honest, Tharja had to admit that she was enjoying this game as much as she hoped he was. She felt powerful every time something she said caused his body to shudder. Every impure desire that she confessed to spurred him on, made it harder for him to keep control. She didn’t know why he was fighting so hard to hold back, but she looked forward to making him break with nothing but the sound of her voice.

“I want you scent so deep that it can’t be scrubbed out.” She closed her eyes, imagining the fantasy that she was describing, “I want to feel it -mmmmm- sticking to my skin.” In her mind she could picture it so clearly. She was sprawled out over the top of the desk, Robin’s sticky white fluids covering her body. She could almost smell the pearlescent prize splashed on her face. She drew her hand up her body, bringing her finger to her lips, “I want to taste it on my tongue.”

This had been the last straw for Robin’s resolve. Tharja wasn’t the only one who had a vivid imagination. It was hard not to have a clear picture of what Tharja had been describing. The image had been too much for his body to ignore. His fingers coiled tightly around Tharja’s hips, lifting her slightly off of the desk to facilitate his fevered movement.

Tharja’s ‘begging’ broke down into while moans as Robin pounded his hips hard against hers. He buried his length completely in the moist chasm of her sex with a power that shook her body, causing her unbound breasts to sway with each movement. His thrusts were the powerful and desperate movements that she had been hoping for all along. It had only just begun and already she found herself teetering on the edge.

Robin let out grunts and groans with every powerful thrust. Though he didn’t want to admit it, he was also approaching his limit rather quickly. It seemed that the time apart had lowered both parties abilities to last long enough for their usual prolonged experiences. He grit his teeth, trying to make himself last as he twitched deep within her tight folds.

Tharja’s desperate moans filled the inside of the tent as Robin made violent use of her body. She could feel his end approaching, and made a last desperate plea, “Do it -AHHnnnN- Please!”

The strategist felt his body shudder as he pulled the witch tight against him in a final thrust. His hips gave out a few last shudders as her erupted within her, filling her with his white hot release. Both of them let out a united moan as they arrived at the end of their session. With his energy momentarily sapped, Robin slumped forward, onto his lover’s body.

Robin took a few long breaths, trying to calm his roaring heart, “Thank you for saving me.”

Tharja nodded, bringing a shaky hand up to the side of his neck to cradle him in her bosom, “It was only natural…” She closed her eyes, “I’ll crush any fate that dares to take you away.”

oOoOo

Ezra stared forward, his eyes failing to focus on anything in particular. His body was hunched over, a huddled mass in his patchwork throne. The witch had left after her tour of destruction, likely brimming with confidence that the bandits had been sufficiently scared off. With her and his collection of slaves gone, Ezra had gathered what was left of his wolf pack back into the old warehouse. Gripping the blood-soaked rag to his mangled hand, Ezra knew this was as good a place to lick his wounds as any.

That witch and the strategist thought that they were so smart. He knew his time would come. He’d already patched up the holes in his walls with new wooden barriers. Now Ezra just had to wait patiently. Eventually he’d have his opportunity to lay them low, to trample over them like they had trampled over him. He’d pay them back for destroying his business, for killing his men, and for taking his finger. The man winced at a pang of phantom pain from the missing digit.

Clicking footsteps split the air, breaking Ezra from his cruel schemes of revenge. He instinctively hugged his limbs in tighter against his body as his eyes flashed over to the entrance of the ‘great hall’. He felt a shiver run down his spine at the thought that the foot-falls might belong to the witch, returned to finish what she had started with his finger. It was too late to make any preparations to get the jump on her if she had returned, so he instead his mind ran through routes of escape.

Emerging from the shadows was a dark skinned woman, clad in a mixture of leather and lace, all of which was of the deepest black. The deep v-neck of her dress left little to the imagination, plunging past her navel and only stopping at the woman’s criss-crossed belts. Around her neck she wore a high collar that spoke of ebony raven feathers. Upon her head was a terrifying tiara of black points.

The white-haired woman looked about the room, with a cool, disinterested expression, “You bandits do love your little pretend castles, don’t you?”

Ezra narrowed his eyes as he looked at the woman who had so brazenly marched into his den, “Just who do you think _you_ are?” His threatening tone was cut by the cowardly way he had curled into himself on his ‘throne’.

With a slightly tired expression the woman let out a soft sigh, “I suppose introductions _are_ the foundation to any business arrangement.” She brought up one of her hands, placing her palm over her chest, “You may call me Aversa. I came as soon as your man delivered the news that you had captured the Shepard’s grandmaster.”

The bandit leader let out a hollow mirthless laugh. Wasn’t that just like the Plegians to show up after the fight. This time their tardiness was going to cost them. The prize that the woman had come looking for might not have slipped out of their fingers with the extra man-power. If they had shown up sooner, the whole disaster probably could have been avoided, and everyone would be walking away from the table with what they wanted.

“You’re a little late, Missy.” He closed his eyes and took a long breath, “We got attacked, and they made off with all of our merchandise. Guess you made the trip for nothing.”

“Disappointing, but I guess I was just expecting too much from a band of bandits…” Aversa let out another pained sigh, “At least by investigating this myself instead of reporting it I didn’t waste anyone else’s time…”

Ezra felt his eyebrows twitch in anger. The bandit leader had pulled enough grifts in his time to see through Aversa’s plan. She had hoped to come here, offer him a fraction of the bounty on the spell-caster, and then she’d head back to get all of the glory of capturing the man. She could pretend that it had been because she doubted them, but he could recognize the twisted plans of a snake when he saw them. She had only ever intended to use them.

A cruel smile twisted the bandit leader’s lips as he examined the woman a bit closer. Everyone had heard stories about Plegian dark magicians. On the battlefield they were masters of the mystic arts, but they were also said to be masters of more carnal talents. The woman standing before Ezra was not shrouded in the standard dark mage regalia, but she still had a body that could fill even a monk’s mind with obscene fantasies. With her supple hips, her bountiful breasts, and that exotic dark skin, even Ezra would have to confess to a stirring within his loins.

Seeing opportunities and then being able to seize them was the skill that had kept Ezra alive. A beautiful woman who appeared not to be armed had marched into the den of slavers alone. She had strutted around in her skin-tight outfit that exposed so much of that delectable skin, and then she had openly challenged their strength. Normally there’d be nothing that he could do about it while maintaining his chances at a business relationship with the Plegians. The opportunity only existed once she had confessed that she hadn’t told anyone she was coming.

“Why don’t you stay a while, Missy?” Ezra waved with his bandaged hand, signalling two of his men to close off Aversa’s escape route, “It’s dangerous to be traveling at night. We wouldn’t want you to run into any dangerous folks.”

Aversa wrinkled her nose, signalling her aversion to the crumbling warehouse, “I don’t foresee encountering any trouble.”

Ezra began to chuckle softly as he looked at the Plegian woman, his imagination running wild with all of the ways that he could enjoy her himself, “Didn’t you notice that you’d already walked into the wolf-den little miss riding hood?”

Aversa quirked an eyebrow in response to his taunt. Her eyes flashed from side to side as she took in the presence of a strong bandit eagerly waiting behind each shoulder for the signal to move. While Ezra had expected her mask of calm to be shattered, revealing fear and panic, instead he saw the woman’s expression transform into a smug smirk. Was she not taking them seriously?

“I see.” The Plegian warrior chuckled softly, slowly bringing the back of her hand to her lips, “Because the strategist turned out to be more than you could handle, your plan is to capture me and sell me as a slave then?”

The bandit leader’s smile turned crueler as he looked over the woman who was still refusing to take him seriously, “Don’t worry. We’ll make sure to break you in first.” He chuckled at the appreciative grumbles of his men, “We don’t usually make a habit of teaching the merchandise what happens when they meets a wolf in the woods. I’m sure everyone is eager to show riding hood a good time.”

Aversa chuckled again, closing her eyes and relaxing her stance, “So you’re wolves then?” She began to laugh, “Ha, I suppose it is at the least commendable for you men to realize that you’rejust dumb animals.” Her laughs died down to amused chuckles as she continued, “You realize that things did not work out for the wolf in the story where he encountered the girl in the riding hood?”

Ezra finally pushed himself out of his throne, walking forward as he fumbled with his belt, “Hey boys, whatta’ya say we find out if she can spit those insults out of a mouth full of cock.” He flashed her a cruel toothy grin as he signalled his men to push the woman to her knees.

The events that followed were faster than the eye could track. The crackling dark energy of a spell that Aversa had prepared before entering the warehouse sprouted from her fingertips. A streak of energy that seemed to consume all of the light around it cut through the throat of the banding over Aversa’s left shoulder.

As the bandit stumbled back, choking on his own blood, it seemed that Aversa was moved faster, as if fuelled with the fresh spray of blood on her cheek. She produced a dark grimoire as if out of thin air, her fingers blazing over the arcane runes of its pages. A bolt of darkness shot from her fingertips, spearing through the heart of the bandit over her right shoulder, killing him before his friend had even hit the ground.

Ezra stumbled backwards as he tried to make a hasty retreat. In the back of his mind he recalled hearing about this kind of ability before. Pegasus Knights that had specialized in offensive magic instead of the healing arts could do this. Apparently once they killed someone they could move in the moment between moments. He had always thought that it was just an exaggeration, that some Dark Flier had figured out how to manipulate wind magic to move faster.

Aversa slowly crouched down before the fallen man, levelling her sharpened fingernails with his saucer-wide eyes, “Oh my, Mr. Wolf.” She let out a honeyed chuckle as smeared the warm blood over her cheek with her free hand. Her lips form a vile smirk as she readied the blow that would leave the bandit in eternal darkness, “What big eyes you have.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And with that, we close another arc in the Book of Hexes. Fate can be a funny thing. Tharja begged the fates to show her a sign that her love was right, and after tumbling through the pits of despair was finally granted her wish. Who's to say they ever would have been able to save Morgan or Noire in time if not for the cruel games that fate played? In the end, all of the players were dealt the fate that they truly deserved.
> 
> Will Chrom stumble into Robin and Tharja basking in the afterglow of their lovemaking? Will he decide that a carnal punishment is the best way to express his displeasure at their respective disappearances? What was the cost that Morgan had to pay Anna to purchase their ride back to camp? Has the strategist from the future found herself indebted to someone willing to force her into dubious situations to get her money back? Did Noire ever get back her talisman, or is she doomed to be a timid coward, leaning on the Shepard's soldiers to protect her? In order to keep her from being pierced by swords, will they demand that she be 'pierced' in a different way? Will the next chapter be totally rated 'G' so I don't stumble helplessly through writing sex scenes? I have absolutely no idea, because I don't know if/when I'm going to complete the triforce and write a third real entry to this series!
> 
> Tune in next time...assuming there's a next time!


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